


all the things flashing by

by lentezon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentezon/pseuds/lentezon
Summary: War doesn’t simply begin at one specific moment. It simmers under the surface, bubbling up like hot lava in different places at a time until it bursts and covers everything, the way a volcano erupts and covers all the earth around it with devastating substance.Hiswar began a long time ago.“Don’t what, Granger? Don’t tell you what it was like? But everyone else wants to know. Does it hurt your fable on how all Death Eaters think this thing is a gift? On how we’re all willing to serve him forever, until death do us part? How we’re all sadistic shits who get off on torture and pain?”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Theodore Nott
Comments: 43
Kudos: 192





	1. 00. Zero. (Before, or The Beginning.)

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine was a great time to start a new project. This one has been in my head for longer than I can remember (and I mean that literally), in some way or other.
> 
> I've really enjoyed getting back into writing and getting lost in this fic as I wrote it. I'm also _very_ nervous about posting this after not writing for so long, but we're going to ignore that. Hopefully you'll like reading it as I did writing it!
> 
> Small but fair warning: my chapter numbers are going to mismatch the AO3 chapter numbers because I love prologues too much, sorry about that one.

War doesn’t simply begin at one specific moment. It simmers under the surface, bubbling up like hot lava in different places at a time until it bursts and covers everything, the way a volcano erupts and covers all the earth around it with devastating substance. 

_His_ war began a long time ago, far before that night on the tower with the old headmaster, or the moment he got branded with that ugly, writhing thing now permanently on his arm. It wasn’t even on that day at the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts, when it was first spoken that the Dark Lord had returned. 

Any of those things could have been the beginning, but all of those were just flashes now, when he thought about this question. 

He only really noticed things in flashes, these days. 

A flash of surprise, when the trio was brought in, so quick and fleeting that he barely needed to hide it. By the time they asked him to identify Potter, he was comfortably nestled back into his own head. All he had to do was not to look the Boy Wonder directly into his eyes. He stared instead at the dark rings underneath them that were still slightly visible despite the jinx—as if that would be a good enough disguise, especially considering who were traveling with him. 

“Is it him, Draco?” 

He shrugged, or at least he thought he did, because of course it was. They all knew it. They were just waiting for him, Draco, to speak the final curse, the same way they had with the old headmaster. Waiting for him to right that wrong, perhaps. “Maybe.” Then, because that felt insufficient, “I don’t know.” 

He made the mistake of looking Potter straight in the eye anyway. Another flash. Anger, relief, and something close to gratitude that Draco knew he didn’t deserve. Not answering in the positive was literally the least he could’ve done, and not even close to enough. 

He got up and went to stand at the empty fireplace, with his mother, and didn’t allow himself to dwell on the present long enough to feel guilty about it. 

A flash of guilt, upon hearing the screams of one specific Muggle-born witch, which came as its own kind of surprise because he rarely noticed any screams anymore. It had all started with Charity Burbage. It had all stopped with Narcissa Malfoy. 

He barely even noticed his own now, anymore. 

A flash of silver, as it flew right past him and disappeared along with the Chosen One. That had to mean it had hit something, or it would just have lodged itself in the wall behind them, and he could only hope that it wasn’t Potter or they’d all be fucked six ways to Sunday. 

_Who would’ve thought._

“You!” Bellatrix shrieked, more deranged than ever. “You _knew_ , you filthy—Cissa, give me your wand.” 

“Bella—” The slightest tremor, a sliver of fear. Her own sister. 

“ _NOW.”_

He didn’t hear her speak the actual spell, but that had never truly mattered with her. It didn’t even matter that she wasn’t casting it with her own wand; there was more than enough anger and hate behind it for it to work. 

Part of him wished he could still feel it. All he needed to do was reopen his mind, reopen its connection to his body, and he could allow himself to be punished. For his choices, whichever ones one wanted to punish him for. 

There was screaming in the distance. He thought it might be him, like his body had decided that it needed the release even if his mind didn’t tell it to. His screaming and his aunt’s deranged yells of “ _traitor”,_ and perhaps his mother’s slightly faster breath. They all knew better than to beg for him. 

He wondered, not for the first time, why she didn’t just lock herself away, as well. 

He was dropped unceremoniously on the floor so Bellatrix could move on to Greyback, who had the bad form to actually _beg_. 

It was a delightful thing to grab on to, to focus on his pathetic whimpering under the Cruciatus curse as if he weren’t the most feared werewolf in the country but some fragile princess. It was disgusting, and beautiful, and it kept his mind away from his own shaking body that was still down in a heap on the floor. 

Until the room darkened. 

Not literally, and not in a flash, either. Never in a flash, when _He_ arrived. A collective stopping of breath, of the beating of hearts. Even the loudest, most present personality would shrivel and grey. 

The next thing he knew, he was in his room, on his own bed, his body shaking so bad he had trouble tuning it out. That wasn’t normal, even for him. “M-Mippy?” 

A croak, barely audible, but she appeared next to his bed with a _crack_ nonetheless. “M-Master Draco, sir?” 

“What happened?” 

She was shaking, her ears drooping and her big eyes directed firmly at the ground. He felt bad for her, just a little. She didn’t look much better than he felt. “ _He_ did, sir,” she whispered, as quietly as possible in that squeaky voice of hers. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, closing his eyes and sinking back into the pillows. “Guessed as much.” He should ask, of course. _What about everybody else?_ What about mother? 

“They is punished, master Draco,” Mippy said. “They was alive when Mippy glimpsed, but they is punished.” 

He let out a deep breath and nodded. That’d have to do for now. 

“Is there anything else Mippy can do for you, master Draco?” 

He couldn’t bear to look at the elf, but he did need to give her the order, even if he’d given it plenty of times before. “Stay safe, Mippy.” 

It was quiet for what felt like a long time before she said, “Thank you, master Draco, sir,” and disappeared again. 

He wondered why any of them was still alive, if _He_ truly had happened. Draco could barely recall Him returning to the Manor at all—and after that, it was just one big blank space, like so many of his memories these days. He wondered how much of that was his mind protecting him, and how much of it he had actually missed entirely. It was hard to tell, these days. 

He wondered, briefly, how his parents were doing— _alive, but punished—_ but discarded that thought almost right away because he couldn’t bear it. If they were hurt too badly, was it his fault? Could he have avoided it by selling out Potter? Would they be rewarded right now if he had, pardoned from their past mistakes? 

Would it have been worth it? 

His war began way back before he was born, when his parents decided to follow a monster.


	2. 01. One. (Leaving, or Arriving.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were very much regretting their choice of living place by this point.

**01.01.**

The Muggles all around the neighbourhood were wary—scared, even—of the darkly cloaked figure in the middle of the street, an unwelcome sight in any time, but especially in this one. There was a darkness over the land that they couldn’t explain, a perpetual twilight, and in that darkness strange things happened. People disappeared, mental health issues were at an all-time high, and some people simply _dropped dead_ without any medical problem whatsoever—perfectly healthy, only dead. 

So this stranger, they avoided like the Plague, even though all he appeared to do was stand there, entirely, eerily still. They all knew. They all watched him, even if they did not pass him outside. He might be the mystery killer on the lookout for his next victim, and it could be any one of them. 

There had been others in this exact place, just a few months earlier, just before all this strangeness had started. They had all watched the numbers 11 and 13, and never moved. Even before that, sometimes there had been strangely dressed people, although they hadn’t appeared as threatening. Those people hadn’t been seen in a while, though. 

The inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were very much regretting their choice of living place by this point. 

The lone figure out in the street appeared unbothered by the eyes staring at him through all the windows. There was only one house he cared about, and it was the one that no one could see. 

When finally something did happen, it was a bit of a let-down. 

A man appeared in the middle of the street, tall and dark and strangely familiar, and right away the street was lit up by a flash and something in the shape of a small stick flew through the air from one man to the other. A sign? Code for... what, exactly? But it seemed to mean something, because only after this did the new man walk up to the cloaked stranger. 

If the people had any means of following the conversation outside, they would have. A brave soul may have considered opening their front door to hear better—but wisely decided against it. After all this time of hovering, they must be having one interesting discussion. 

But the figures just walked off, straight toward the middle between numbers 11 and 13, and... disappeared? 

Perhaps they had all imagined it. Most of them hadn’t been outside in a while, and it must have gone to their heads. Should they ask their neighbours? 

No. They might be the next one to disappear. 

Inside Number 12, things were a lot louder, and a lot more confronting, although the cloaked figure kept quiet as he was being tossed around, yelled at, even as a hex was shot his way that only just missed him. _Flashes._ Not that much different from how things had been at home, up until recently. 

“Everybody— _OUT!”_ That was the wizard that approached him in the street, intimidating despite his ridiculously colourful purple robes. His deep voice made the loud words even more explosive. “Except you, Remus, I’d like you to stay here.” 

“Of course.” 

They asked him a lot of questions that he didn’t bother to answer, because it didn’t matter what he’d tell them and they knew it, too. They either thought he was misguided (at best), or a lying, murdering monster (at worst), and he wanted to hate them for it but couldn’t. Not entirely. Perhaps that was the worst part—that he knew everyone in this house hated him, and he couldn’t even fault them for it. 

“Right,” Shacklebolt said, when it became clear Draco Malfoy was not going to tell them why he’d turned up on their doorstep, at a place he could have attempted to enter with his pal Yaxley’s information, no less. As if he didn’t know they would’ve put a ton more wards in place if they were still using it at all. As if barging in would do anything to help his case. “There is a room free on one of the upper levels. You will be staying there. You will not leave this room for anything, because you will not be able to, except twice a day for toilet breaks after your meals. You will be given three days to tell us exactly why you are here, and three days only.” 

A prison, then. Not too different from how the past few weeks had been going. “And if I don’t? Talk?” 

“We do not resort to the kinds of methods that may be familiar to you,” said Lupin, the old ‘professor’ looking shabbier than ever. “But do not mistake us for fools. You will not leave this place again.” 

“Some light side you are.” 

“This is war,” he said softly. “I believe you, of all people, should know.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

**01.02.**

Grimmauld Place was a prison. Not in the sense that Azkaban was a prison, mind, but similar enough. He was not allowed— _could not_ —leave the room they had stuck him in, because it was locked by magic and they’d taken his wand. His mother’s wand. He should have seen that one coming.

It still pissed him off. It might not be his own wand, but it was the only connection he had to his mother, so it was almost _worse_ to lose it.

_“You’ll get it back if we decide you’re trustworthy.”_

And if they wouldn’t? He’d die incomplete, with his veins burning with magic that had nowhere to go and even more anger.

There were no flashes in his prison except flashes of doubt, when he wondered if he was making the right choice (this time), and grief, when he recognized that he was. There was a lot of screaming in this house, too, but that happened so regularly and was so familiar—yet different—that it was rather easy to block. He focused on it exactly once. It was about him. 

It was probably a good thing he didn’t get the promised two meals a day, because he may not have survived whoever was supposed to bring them. Lupin was safe enough.

The one time he didn’t come, on a full moon, Draco got a nice hex along with his dinner. He didn’t eat any of it. It was probably poisoned.

It took a long time before they made the effort to have him talk. He didn’t have a choice but to answer their questions, and as it involved Veritaserum and Legilimency alike, to answer them honestly. 

“I did what I had to do to keep my family safe.” 

“I’ve suffered enough Cruciatuses that I don’t think my nerve endings will ever work normally again. My hands tremble when I fall asleep and still tremble when I wake up. I haven’t had a dreamless sleep without potion for two years.” (Like anyone cared about that.) 

“ _He_ lived in the Manor and it was Hell.” 

“I came only now because there was nothing left to save.” 

It hurt, because there was no way to tell them anything in parts, or to Occlude his mind to keep his emotions from showing and his head to disappear to another place for a while. It hurt, and he wouldn’t, ever, admit that there were tears in his eyes, but they believed him and the tears may have helped. They didn’t trust him, but they believed him, because he’d told them everything under a Truth Potion and that meant there was no denying that everything he said was true.

But he wasn’t done yet. 

“I saw Potter.” 

Now _that_ got their attention. 

Shacklebolt turned slowly in the doorway, face angry, looking somehow as menacing as Aunt Bella except in a calm and collected kind of way. “What did you say?” 

“I said,” Draco started, trying to draw out the words into his old, familiar drawl—some semblance of his old confidence, “I saw Potter, and companions. Thought you might want to know.” 

He didn’t emerge as a very good guy from that story. Perhaps that was why they kept him in his prison for days afterwards still. Perhaps they just didn’t know what to do with him, or the news he’d brought them. It appeared they hadn’t seen their Golden Trio for a while now. He wondered if they even knew what those three were doing at all. 

He wondered what those three were doing that they were stupid enough to end up at the Manor. He’d been wondering that a lot, ever since. They’d been lucky the inhabitants of the Manor were more reserved in summoning their master than they used to be, because they all knew the consequences of summoning him without a cause. They’d been lucky they had that sword. Draco didn’t know why, exactly, except that it meant something. 

And that it wasn’t his place to know. 

**01.03.**

He wasn’t allowed out of his prison. Instead, they told him, he was now allowed visitors, as though anyone wanted to visit him except to either punch or hex him to death. He was still shaky from those tests, from the way they’d forced themselves into his head and pulled everything out to study and analyse as though he wasn’t a bloody person with a right to privacy.

He hadn’t slept well since. The memories kept invading his sleeping mind more than usual, or rather, different than usual. It had taken him long enough to hide them all away from everyone including himself; it felt like starting all over.

And they were treating him like he should be grateful that they cared to take the time for it.

“We’re still figuring things out,” Lupin told him. The shabby man had sounded nothing but soft when talking to him. He never sneered or looked disgusted, but his eyes were cold and hard. 

“Figuring out what to do with me,” Draco said, voice calm and cold. “I know.” 

The man just shrugged. He didn’t need to bother with a lie. Draco just wished he knew what he was supposed to do with himself in the meantime. Perhaps they were keeping him here just to have him reflect on his sins, as though he hadn’t been doing that for years. He didn’t need the time to remind himself of the day that Mark was forced upon him (and how he’d felt it was an honour, even if it was a terrifying one), or how he’d cried in desperation in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom because he’d been so scared. He couldn’t bloody _stop_ thinking about that.

“I’m sorry,” Lupin said before he left the room, not sounding sorry at all.

**01.04.**

When Draco did get a visitor, it wasn’t an old classmate that had come to taunt him, which was a miracle in and of itself. It _was_ an old classmate, though. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be in Germany?” 

“Weren’t you supposed to be a Death Eater?” 

He didn’t want to show his surprise, but it proved surprisingly difficult to come up with anything to say that didn’t involve the words _what the bloody hell_. “I was. I wasn’t very good at it.” 

Theodore Nott frowned at him, apparently attempting to dissect those words as though that would make him understand the blonde in front of him. “Don’t trivialize it.” 

Draco snorted, but didn’t deem that worthy of a reply. None of these people were going to have a clue, not even Nott, who had grown up with a father equally loyal to the Dark Lord as Lucius Malfoy and more cruel to boot. 

“They told us you passed their tests.” Of course, he would’ve had to go through them, too. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good for you.” Nott crossed his arms, never taking his eyes off his old acquaintance. “I’m surprised they let you. They should’ve taken you out right away, after the past two years.” 

“Yes.” If they were smart, they would have. “But here I am.” 

“Here you are,” Theo agreed. 

Draco wanted to ask the guy what had made _him_ decide to defect, when he’d done it, and how this other side had responded to him, when he had. If he’d settled in here. If he was still nervous that the Death Eaters would find him and dole out a punishment. Draco’s Mark hadn’t stopped burning since he left, and he was quite sure that was only because he could not stop worrying about it. 

Of course, he asked none of these things, because he didn’t have any right to know and in any case he didn’t think he was ready for the answers yet.

“You know,” Theo said slowly, “we wondered, Blaise and I. During sixth year. Whether a teenager could really have that _thing_ on his arm.” He drawled out the word in a tone like it tasted of Flobberworms. “And then the end of that year came, and we wondered why you were stupid enough to take it.” 

It was a bait, Draco knew that. He’d already told those Order people when they drugged and interrogated him. He’d even told Dumbledore at the top of that tower, so long ago now and yet not even a year, and the old fool had actually offered him _help—_ like anyone could’ve helped him or his family back then. 

(Every day, he wondered what could have been, had he accepted that offer.) 

(It didn’t matter anyway, because he’d already let the others into the school, and they would’ve killed him too if they’d known.) 

(He’d done nothing to deserve to still be alive right now.) 

“He would’ve killed them,” he admitted anyway. “My family.” 

“Huh,” said Theo, because Theo had never had the kind of family that he would be murdering people for to save.

“Huh,” Draco said flatly. He didn’t feel like talking about this, about everything he and his family had been through. They’d been on the wrong side. Whatever his story was, it didn’t matter. “Heard what you wanted to hear? You can go tell your new friends now. Or was there more?” 

Theo gave him a long look, one that was equal parts understanding and disgust. “No, I think I’m good.” 

“Good. I’d like to get some rest.” 

His old classmate just shook his head and left. Somehow, Draco felt like this had been the worst conversation yet, including all those truth tests they’d made him take.

**01.05.**

The days were long this way, when you couldn’t do anything. He hadn’t gone through many such days in his life until after the Dark Lord punished them all for letting Potter and his friends escape, and those days were filled with worry because he already felt then that he would not see his mother again.

Here, there was simply nothing. His mind wasn’t filled with worry for people because there was no one he cared to worry for. Here, he just sat and waited, with nothing but the memory of those days to keep him occupied.

He wished he had a book, even if only to pretend it might keep him occupied.

She wasn’t even supposed to die.

The Dark Lord—Draco was so used to calling him this that he didn’t know what else to do—did not murder Purebloods. Well, not unless they could be used to make a point, like if you once taught Muggle Studies.

She wasn’t supposed to die, and yet she had, and it was nothing less than a miracle that Draco had managed to leave the Manor after that because he would have assumed they would keep an extra close eye on him. He could just hear the old Headmaster say it: _Voldemort does not believe in love, and therefore underestimates it._ It disgusted him, and yet it was true.

He got no more visitors, which surprised him, if only because he’d expected someone to come up and hex or beat him half to death. He didn’t think this ‘Light Side’ would be able to control themselves. They were probably too busy, or afraid it was a trap. Sometimes, he wished it was.

Mostly, he slept, which at least kept him from thinking. He hadn’t slept well in a long time, and now that there wasn’t anything else to do he was suddenly exhausted. Still all this sleeping did not help much, because dreamless sleep was rare and when he dreamt, it was rarely about anything good. The only times he was glad for his dreams was when they were about summer days at the Manor back when he was a kid, and those just depressed him when he woke up again because they would never happen again.

He wondered why he’d come here.


	3. 02. Two. (Humbling, or Learning.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think you’ll find few people here willing to only break your nose once.”

**02.01.**

The first time he was let out of his prison, he was immediately punched in the face by Neville Longbottom, of all people. He doubled over in both pain and pure shock, his right hand flying to his nose and coming away covered in blood. “Bloody hell, Longbottom—" 

“You deserved that,” he said. 

“Like hell I did,” Draco snarled, because he _did_ but that didn’t mean he agreed with this buffoon punching him in the face. 

Longbottom looked more collected than Draco felt, though. Less like the blubbering idiot he’d been in their first few years at Hogwarts. Draco wondered, for a moment, when he had changed that much, and then wondered how much his classmates had changed in the past two years without him even noticing it because he’d been too busy trying to prove himself to a monster. 

“I’m part of this club of yours, now,” he drawled, as much as was possible through his throbbing nose, trying to regain some of his own calm. “You might want to treat me as such.” 

“I think you’ll find few people here willing to only break your nose once,” said Longbottom. He was shaking, Draco noticed now, though he did a good job hiding it by keeping his posture straight and his chin up, the same way Draco himself had so often done. “You don’t belong here.” 

That, at least, was very true. 

He refused to go back upstairs with his tail between his legs, but he was infinitely glad there was no one else in the kitchen when he got tea and toast. He wasn’t some brave Gryffindor who wouldn’t let his pride get him to save his own skin. He was supposed to be clever, and cunning, and bloody well preserving himself.

And proud, too. At least no one else was there to see his ego take a hit, or worse, him accepting it.

**02.02.**

Draco was getting increasingly better at being hungry. 

He hadn’t often been hungry in the past years, and not just because he’d spent most of them at Hogwarts, where the tables were still always filled with good food. Pansy Parkinson, who’d spent a good part of her time fawning over him but was also one of the few people who actually cared, had been the first to say it out loud, back in sixth year. _You haven’t had dinner._

_I wasn’t hungry._

_You haven’t been hungry all year._

He’d been fuelled by anger and hate for the entire first half of that year, and stress and fear for the other. That last part never really stopped. You sort of lost your appetite when the Dark Lord tortured and killed people over your dinner table. 

He’d never taken Muggle Studies, but he would never forget the Muggle Studies professor. 

Here, in this house, there was no Dark Lord, but there were a lot of old Hogwarts pupils that believed him to have murdered their beloved Headmaster, and a lot of people that knew him to be the reason Dumbledore and several others had died that night even if Draco hadn’t killed any of them directly. Grimmauld Place was a passageway, not a location where anyone really stayed—they couldn’t use it as such because Granger had failed to keep the Fidelius Charm and allowed Yaxley a glimpse of the front door. It was now a place students or Order members Apparated to before getting to their real safehouse. 

He still avoided the kitchen as much as possible, because no one turned down a quick snack after they had to flee and turned out to be alright, so it wasn’t unlikely to run into anyone. And he’d already received enough punches to last him a lifetime. 

He hadn’t bothered to ask for any help healing the breaks and bruises. 

It wasn’t like he was actively trying to pick a fight—he hadn’t just been trying to avoid them, but had even tried to be civil to a few people whose path he did inadvertently crossed. It simply did not matter what he said or did. 

Part of him wanted nothing better than to saunter around the house telling everybody off. That was what they were expecting, then that was what he would give them. And he would, he thought. Once he was in the clear.

These people held far more power over him than he should ever have allowed anyone. It made him feel disgusted, with both them and himself. He was a _Malfoy_. They should at the very least treat him with some respect, whether he’d earned it or not.

But he’d set himself up for this when he left the Manor, and now there was no going back.

“Weasleys,” he said to the red-haired twins snatching some food while they passed through.

“What’s that, Fred? I didn’t hear properly,” said the one with only one ear.

“A ferret trying to _weasel_ its way in,” Fred said, looking at Draco like he was a flesh-eating slug on the wall. “We did promise mum not to hex it into its proper shape—”

“—but we said nothing about testing out those ones we’ve been experimenting with.”

They were probably not serious. He didn’t take the risk anyway.

**02.03.**

They finally moved him to a proper safehouse after weeks of being stuck at Grimmauld. It probably had something to do with the fact that someone always had to be around to keep an eye on him, and Grimmauld was still a known Order location to the Death Eaters. It likely made more sense just to leave him there without a prison ward, because there was nothing new he’d be able to tell the Dark Lord even if he _were_ a spy just from staying there, but he didn’t question the Order. He didn’t really give a rat’s ass what they did as long as he was kept far away from where he’d come from.

They moved him to a nondescript brick house that didn’t appear to belong to anyone in particular, which was likely the reason they moved him there. _“You can leave your room, but you won’t be leaving the house under any circumstances. I don’t care if it’s on fire, you’re not leaving. Should you decide to do so, you will lose all protection the Order might give you, and be actively prosecuted. We cannot stand in for that happens to your person should it come to that.”_

He’d only raised an eyebrow at the Auror, likely angry that the only Death Eater he’d ever caught had simply wandered right into his hands, and said, “Better cancel that holiday, then.”

The man did not look like he appreciated it.

As opposed to Grimmauld Place, this house was at least semi-permanently manned. In other words, it provided the first real challenge. 

“What in _fuck_ is he doing here?” 

“Weaselette,” Draco acknowledged, leaning against the polished, grey doorframe. “I’m here for the same reason as you are, now.” 

“Yeah, right,” she snapped. “and Hell just froze over.” 

He pretended to inspect his nails in order to look like what he was going to say next was just a throwaway line. “Hell’s already pretty cold, actually.” The Dark Lord brought that with him wherever he went. 

It only threw her off for a second. 

Then she stalked over and slapped him. 

He had his wand in his hand before he even realised he was doing it. One slip-up and he was out, dead, forget about it. If they kicked him out of here, there was nowhere left to run . “Careful, Red, you don’t want to bite off more than you can chew.” 

“Careful, White,” she said, in a sneer that rivalled Draco’s own. “You haven’t a clue what I could do.” 

_You’re just a little girl._ “I think I can handle you.” 

“Fuck off.” 

He shrugged, and did, this time keeping his pride intact while retreating. Pissing everyone off and getting told to leave might be the way to keep a little semblance of normalcy while still getting rid of them in his vicinity.

**02.04.**

The house was called White Brick, and although it was supposed to be a safehouse with a rotational occupation, the Weasley girl was around almost every single day. She was often accompanied by an older guy who Draco correctly assumed was yet another Weasley called Charlie (or The Lesser Known Weasley), though he was often gone doing Merlin-knew-what for their side’s profit. 

There was also Tonks, another woman with disgustingly bright hair, though hers was _pink_. This seemed to be a very odd choice during a war until she turned into a moderately attractive young brunette who Draco had either seen before, or was so moderate in her attractiveness that she could have been _anyone_ and no one would explicitly notice her. He had the nasty feeling it might be both. 

Others passed through every so often, sometimes staying for no more than half an hour, sometimes for several days, never talking to Draco both because they didn’t want to and because he didn’t let them. The only one he couldn’t get around talking to was Tonks. She didn’t _like_ him, but she did put in an effort, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he appreciated or disliked her for it. 

He’d have to start being useful soon, though. They hadn’t let him stay out of the goodness of their hearts, and he himself was getting tired of being a ghost in their safehouses, too. “This isn’t a free ride, Draco. You can stay because you can be useful, so you better start acting like it.” 

“I’ve already told them everything I know.” 

“Yeah,” his cousin said, “and if all any of us did was talk about stuff, there would have been no Order for you to flee to because we’d either be dead or made to breed cute little pureblood brats, so you’re going to start pulling your weight.” 

“And your boss couldn’t come tell me this himself?” 

“Kingsley has better things to do than hop around passing messages,” she said, in a haughty tone rivalling his own. She wasn’t anything like a Malfoy, but sometimes he couldn’t deny the Black family resemblance shimmering through—or the fact that it kind of impressed him. 

Not that he’d ever admit that a woman who’d change her nose into a pig snout over dinner could impress him. 

**02.05.**

They held the meeting in the dining room of White Brick, which was entirely too small for such an affair. Undoubtedly this was normally not their preferred location; he was quite sure they only chose it to not bring him into another safehouse. He wondered what the point was of his defection and all their tests if they were going to walk on eggshells around him all the time, as though they were afraid he’d press his finger to that ugly, writhing thing on his arm and kill them all. 

Idiots. 

Everyone who came in eyed him warily, though a few people did acknowledge him with a polite nod. It didn’t bother him until a horribly familiar dark young man stepped through the door. 

“Malfoy,” said Dean Thomas. 

“Thomas,” said Draco Malfoy. 

They stared at each other for a few moments—one, twenty, a hundred, Draco could not tell—before Thomas nodded at him and moved toward the dining room, and Draco released the breath he only now realised he’d been holding. He’d expected... screaming? punches? hexes? _Anything_ a guy might need to release some anger toward the family that had imprisoned him in their dungeon for not being able to prove his magical heritage. 

Looking back, it was that nod that would give him his first shot at redemption. 

He sauntered after his old classmate to where the other participants of the meeting were already waiting for him. 

Draco didn’t add much to the meeting except a few corrections to their assumptions. Not everyone who worked for the Dark Lord was either a Death Eater or Imperiused. Some of them were just arseholes. Some of them, he’d added, voice steady and a tad annoyed, were simply scared. 

“He’s right,” Lupin said, which was an unexpected but welcome phrase to hear. The man sounded a lot older than he was, and Draco would swear he was sending Tonks a very significant look when he said it. “We’ve said this before, we need to keep in mind how You-Know-Who worked last time. It’s more about intimidation and mystery. If you don’t know who you can trust, you don’t trust anyone.” He looked at Thomas, Draco, and a woman Draco didn’t know but assumed was also new to the meeting. Everyone else had to already know and understand all this. “Just because we’ve won a few battles, doesn’t mean we’re winning the war.” 

“Some things are more important than others,” Tonks said quietly. 

“That’s not how people’s —” 

“So why this battle, then?” Draco cut in. 

“Because there’s not an infinite number of Death Eaters.” 

“There is if people don’t _know_ who’s on what side, isn’t there?” 

He wished he hadn’t said anything, but their argument was stupid, and they had to know it. 

“What do you want us to do? Sit back until Potter finishes whatever he’s doing?” A young man who’d been called Hamid by Shacklebolt before raised an eyebrow. “Your lot are doing enough damage. We’re not about to sit back and do nothing.” 

Draco had no answer to that, because the man was right, and Draco had no right to question them in this. 

They kicked him out after that, when they were about to discuss exactly what the details of this plan were. It gave him the comfortable position of having given his input, and yet not having to put himself in danger for a pointless battle.

He wasn’t one for brainless bravery.

**02.06.**

“Malfoy.” 

“Thomas.” 

Everyone else had already gone, except the two Weasels that lived in the house and were eyeing them suspiciously, like the two of them might start duelling at any minute. But Draco just waited, in silence, for Dean Thomas to say something. Or do something. Part of him was still expecting that wrath. 

“Thanks.” 

_That_ caught him off guard. “What?” 

Thomas let out a sigh, in that way people do when they’re going to say something that might hurt them to do so. “Luna’s a Pureblood. Hermione was travelling with Harry. Don’t think I don’t know they would’ve just killed _me._ ” 

_“Throw him in the dungeons with the others.”_

_“You’d save a Mudblood, Draco?_

_“He might be useful yet.”_

It was a good thing, probably, that Aunt Bella had been preoccupied with Potter and Granger at the time and hadn’t heard this quiet discussion with his father, the only one he trusted to have enough weight to carry out this decision but not question his loyalty over it. 

He had taken a Crucio for it, later, but only as an afterthought, when the pain and anger from Potter’s escape had been exhausted but Aunt Bella was still longing for Unforgivables. It had been a weak one, comparatively. Thomas was just another Mudblood, better dead than alive but not a threat to the Dark Lord the way Granger was. 

He shrugged. “You might’ve been useful.” And then, because he’d just realized something: “And, thanks,” though the words tasted unpleasant on his tongue. He hadn’t used them often in his life. 

Something of a sly smile played around Thomas’ lips at that, barely noticeable if you weren’t used to scanning faces for the most miniscule of changes. “For what?” 

Merlin, the guy was an arsehole. _For vouching for me._ Because if Thomas was part of all this, then what Draco had told Shacklebolt about Potter either hadn’t been news to them, or had been validated pretty soon after. 

“You’re welcome,” Thomas said graciously when he got no reply. “Luna says hi.” 

With that, he left. 

Draco couldn’t easily place the feeling he had at that moment—annoyance, gratitude, relief—except that it made him feel like he was turning into a bloody Hufflepuff. The Weasley girl’s incredulous “You _saved_ him?” did not help. 

“Hardly,” he snarled, because it was true. He wasn’t some kind of Gryffindor hell-bent on saving everyone. The only person he’d ever actively tried to save was now dead. Forgive him for not seeing the appeal. 

**02.07.**

The news came that they’d won the battle, but that they’d lost a guy called Justin Finch-Fletchley whose name was pretty familiar, and Draco wondered when it had come to be that a whole generation was fighting and dying for this before they’d even finished school. 

No one talked about it again. It felt like they’d lost. 

**02.08.**

Draco didn’t know much about Death Eater tactics and locations, because he might carry the Mark, but his family name hadn’t meant much even in those ranks for a long time now. He knew the Manor was their Headquarters, and that it held the Dark Lord and Wormtail and Aunt Bella, and Father. 

The Manor was where they should start if they really wanted to make an impact with their battles, but it was also the most dangerous, and so they didn’t. Not yet. 

But he wasn’t the only one who was aware of this. Thomas was on their side, and Lovegood, and Ollivander most likely as well. The Order did not depend on him and he didn’t feel like sharing more about his childhood home than he had to. This had nothing to do, as some might think, with his alliance being askew. He simply didn’t like to think about it, about the large snake slithering through the halls and the dark figures sweeping around there; about the terror of being around so much Dark Magic; about seeing a place that was once filled with something akin to joy turn into something so devoid of it.

He wanted to remember the Manor as the place where he played make-believe Quidditch on tiny brooms with Vincent and Greg, where Pansy and Daphne were reprimanded for not behaving like good Pureblood ladies only to have them secretly also hop on a broom anyway.

Not surprisingly, he often failed.


	4. 03. Three. (Fighting, or Taking Part.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His birthday gave him Potter’s return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He gets to do something other than sulk around in this one!

**03.01.**

The first battle he ended up in was barely supposed to be a battle. He’d been at the briefing—he knew. There had been some discussion about him being part of it in the first place, which he could not help but hope would end up in his having to stay behind, but no such luck. “Malfoy will have to earn his stay like everybody else who is of age,” Shacklebolt said. “If he ends up being a traitor, we will know, and we will act accordingly.”

A warning for him as much as an appeasement for everybody else, though he didn’t feel threatened. He wondered only briefly how they would know if he did end up betraying them, whether they’d cursed him to keep track of him somehow or would simply go by assumption. He found that he didn’t have the energy to care.

When he got to the scene of the mission, it was clear right away that something was very wrong. It was not his fault. 

It was in the smell of the air, sulphurous, the way only happened when a lot of intense magic was spilled within a short time. A buzz, like the air itself was alive with it. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t felt this since the day the prisoners escaped from the Manor, when the whole room buzzed with hate and anger and magic. 

Today was supposed to be a raid, not a battle. Sure, they’d sent in some well-trained people, but they hadn’t planned for too many Death Eaters, most of whom were highly skilled, as well. They may not be very disciplined, but they would stop at nothing. Whatever you thought of that, it most certainly did not hurt them. 

It hurt you. 

So he snuck through the trees, hugging his cloak tightly around him partly for the cover it offered him in the falling night, partly to protect himself from the breeze. It was cold for a spring evening. 

The flashes barely lit up the sky—it wasn’t yet dark enough. He only saw it because he was paying attention, and because he nearly stepped on something large and squishy that was lying on the ground and was decidedly not a tree trunk. “Bloody hell— _Longbottom?”_

He wasn’t dead. His eyes were large and staring up at Draco with some mixture of pain, fear, and determination, which was somewhat admirable but completely pointless. “Longbottom,” Draco hissed, “what happened here?” He was looking over the guy, trying to figure out what was wrong exactly. Longbottom’s cloak was wet on the right side. When Draco touched it, his fingers came back dark. 

There were big things to worry about here. He didn’t know what had happened, and the Gryffindor appeared to be in no state to give him a decent answer. “Alright, I’ll... get you back.” He actually felt rather bad about it. “I’ll make sure you get back,” he repeated, not sure yet if that was a lie and how big it was. It felt like a bad omen to leave his old classmate on the ground like that, though. 

Then, suddenly, chaos. 

This close to the action, he could see the flashes from the spells clearly even if he couldn’t hear many of them. A good soldier knew how to cast non-verbals, after all. 

He knew these people. He knew the ones in the dark cloaks. Yaxley, for one, had a very distinctive way of duelling. But he also knew the ones that were part of the Order, the ones they’d planned to be here and the few they had not. So much younger, so much more inexperienced. It was supposed to be easy. 

He wasn’t that much better. 

Still, he dumped his cloak on the ground, afraid they would mistake him for his father in it, and joined the fray, right before someone sent an Unforgivable Lovegood’s way. Lovegood, weird as she was, who had suffered enough at the hands of these people. 

“ _No_.” 

Later, he wouldn’t be able to tell in detail how the rest of that day had gone. Just flashes. Flashes of light, from all the spells, that were becoming clearer as time passed and the evening darkened. Flashes of sound—of spells, of pain, of warning. Of surprise, whenever someone recognized him, and the relief or anger that followed depending on which side it was. _I am so sorry, father._

One interruption from a day that was somehow both filled with adrenaline and yet monotonous. A flash of pain, searing pain, when a spell grazed his left shoulder and ripped both cloak and flesh to bits. Like a claw ripping into him, but so much worse. 

Someone was laughing. He didn’t need to look up to see that whoever it was, was laughing at him. “Stupe—” 

“Expelliarmus!” 

He fully expected his wand to fly from his hand, but it was the Death Eater—he couldn’t see who it was—that stopped laughing right away. It barely took another second for another spell to follow. It was non-verbal, but it threw the Death Eater backwards through the air against a tree with a sickening crack _._

Draco saluted Luna and Charlie in thanks. 

**03.02.**

“You saved Neville.” 

That wasn’t strictly true. He’d gone back for Longbottom, and took him back to White Brick because there wasn’t anywhere else that was safe that he knew about. He’d told Ginny Weasley to get someone who was experienced in Healing while he himself tried to fix the worst of it. He hadn’t saved him. 

“Not really.” 

“You saved Luna.” 

He looked away. “Yeah, well. She deserves better.” 

She looked at him, scrunching her eyebrows. “You know, I’m never going to forget you being an prick back at Hogwarts. But I guess you’re really on our side.” 

“Thanks, Red, for this vote of confidence.” 

She shrugged. “You’re going to have to do a lot more to convince everyone you’re actually decent, you know.” 

“Yeah,” he said, “I do.” He was going to have to do a lot more to convince himself of that, too. But after this, at least they might give him the chance to try. 

**03.03.**

His birthday gave him Potter’s return. 

He heard about it from Tonks, who popped in only to tell him and the Weasels that their brother was back, but they all knew that meant Potter and Granger would be there, too. They were so excited no one bothered to check if Draco was coming (he wasn’t), or that anyone stuck around to babysit him (they didn’t). Instead, he lounged on the sofa, reading a book that the older Weasley had lent him two days before after a tentative conversation about his life before the War handling dragons in Romania. 

For a Weasley, this one was pretty decent. 

Shame the same couldn’t be said for that idiot that was their brother. 

“Why are you living with my _sister?”_

Draco looked up from his book, eyebrows raised. He could feel his lips twitch in amusement almost involuntarily. “Really, Weasel? That’s what you’re worried about? I assure you, you don’t have to worry about me dandling with your sister. I’m not very big on red and poor.” 

That wasn’t what Weasley had been talking about, and Draco knew that. The guy’s face turned even redder than his hair while he tried to search for a smart reply. It was a glimpse of normality, and a great relief from his boredom. Draco relished it. 

“I _—_ ” Weasley started hotly, but a voice from the hallway interrupted him. “I am _perfectly_ capable of taking care of myself, Ron, don’t be such an _ass—"_

She saw Draco on the sofa, his book still open in his lap, and paused for a second, as though there was anywhere else he would’ve been. “ _—_ hole.” 

“Red,” he said, now full-on smirking. 

“Haven’t you got anywhere else to be?” 

“Let me check.” He pretended to look at his watch, an old, expensive one that was the only Malfoy possession he still owned. “You’re right, it’s almost time for after-work drinks with my Death Eater pals, thanks for the heads-up.” 

“That’s _not_ funny.” 

He hadn’t really talked to Ginny Weasley. Not at school, and not since he was staying in this house. Blaise told him last year that she wasn’t bad ( _“for a blood traitor”_ ), which was about the highest compliment he’d ever given a Gryffindor. It would be a dent in his pride to make an effort for her, though, and so he hadn’t. He suspected this was mutual. 

“He’s on our side, now.” No one had heard Charlie enter, but he was standing in the door opening, followed by what might as well be half the Order. “Ron, step _down._ I know you’ve all been through a lot, but so have we. It’s war. Things change. We’ve all worked with people we don’t always like. Deal with it.” 

Hah. 

“Draco, don’t antagonize people any more than you already do. Don’t forget that you’re making use of _our_ facilities, and that you’ve only got _one_ chance. I doubt you’d want to waste it on my brother.” 

His face automatically pulled into a sneer, but he kept his words to himself. This wasn’t Hogwarts, and his name had no influence here except perhaps a bad taste that was going to follow him around for a long time if they wouldn’t give him the opportunity to redeem himself. They were withholding that from him to keep him in check, he was sure. 

He hated them all. 

“He’s evil!” Weasley, clearly raised by savages, snapped angrily. “He killed Dumbledore. He _tortured_ Hermione!” 

Weasley looked around, perhaps expecting those words to have a bigger impact than they did. But everyone already knew she was tortured. Draco had told them. Dean Thomas probably had, too, and though he hadn’t talked to Lovegood at all, she still knew what had happened as well. Just because the Golden Threesome had a hero complex didn’t mean no one else saw or did things, and it sure as hell didn’t mean they got to blame him for things he hadn’t done. 

Draco clenched his jaw to keep himself from snapping. He’d done plenty of bad things in the past years, but he hadn’t been the one to torture her, and he didn’t appreciate yet another bad thing being ascribed to his name.

“It’s alright.” 

Now that did get a reaction in the room. Everyone’s head turned, slowly but somehow simultaneously, toward the bushy haired Muggleborn. She was the only one staring at Draco, rubbing her lower arm where he knew there had to be scarring by now. _Mudblood._

“It’s not—" 

“It is,” she said, softly but firmly. “Let’s not talk about this here, okay?” 

Draco wondered what she was thinking, seeing him again when the last time she’d looked at him he’d been watching her get tortured on his drawing room floor. Her eyes were empty. Had she learned Occlumency or was that simply how she felt these days?

He realized that this question probably applied to him as well, although no one would be bothered to ask it.

“I don’t want to think about it,” she said, slightly more urgently, when no one said anything more. She was still looking at Draco with those empty eyes. “He’s been questioned, Ron, and he passed all the tests. I’m sure our friends know what they’re doing.” She took one of the Weasel’s hands in her own and squeezed it. “Let’s go.” 

Weasley shot him another look of contempt, but followed Granger back out of the house without another word.

Disgusting. 

**03.04.**

That evening, Mippy appeared in his room with a loud and unexpected _crack_ that surprised Draco so much he nearly fell off his bed. 

“Mippy?” 

“Happy birthday, Master Draco,” Mippy said. She looked tired, for a house-elf. Her large ears were drooping and her big eyes weren’t as round as he was used to them being. “I has a present for you.” 

“I... Thank you.” 

They were socks, hand-made by the elf herself by the looks of it, but actually pretty decent. 

He thought of Dobby—not Dobby in the way he was when he rescued Potter from the Manor just two measly months ago, but Dobby from years ago, when he still belonged to the Malfoys. And that one time Dobby had shown himself to Draco at Hogwarts, possibly for no other reason than to taunt him. He’d decided back then that at the very least he’d be nicer to their new elf. The difference it made was astounding. She should be at the Manor still—or, by lack of any of his direct family members being around there, be serving Bellatrix, his mother’s sister. Instead, she still cared to listen to him. 

“Are you safe, Mippy?” He hadn’t seen her since his flight. He wondered where a house-elf went, when not required to be with their Master. 

The elf looked at him with eyes bigger even than usual. “I tries, Master Draco,” she said. 

“Listen. There’s a house called Grimmauld Place, number twelve. It belongs to the Order of the Phoenix. It’s a safehouse, but the Death Eaters know about it. Go there, find the decrepit old elf that lives there and don’t ever tell him I called him that.” He’d thought about this for a while. “Give it another day or so, I’ll talk to someone or they’ll think you’re a spy. But you’ll be safe there.” 

There were tears in Mippy’s eyes. “You is too kind.” 

“No, it’s a thank you,” he said, “for these nice socks.” 

**03.05.**

“You want _what_ now?” 

“There are no important meetings that are held there and the Death Eaters already know the place exists. She can’t hurt anybody by staying there, and she’ll be safer than she is now.” 

“Sometimes,” Charlie said, “I still wonder who drank Polyjuice and took your place, Malfoy.” 

“So do I, Weasley.”

**03.06.**

His first meeting with the entire Golden Trio came not long after that day. It wasn’t pretty. 

Surprisingly, Potter was the only one who actually treated him somewhat decently, which mostly meant that he looked at Draco in a rather constipated way, like he was holding in something unpleasant. At least he did not yell at him or hex him the way Potter was wont to do. Draco wouldn’t soon forget that time he nearly died because Potter thought it a fine idea to try an unknown spell on him. For all that those three hated him, they hadn’t been sugar mice themselves.

Weasley could barely contain his aggression, which was exactly how he’d been at school. It was a bloody miracle the boy had survived whatever quest they had been on until now. You’d think that hot head of his would’ve ruined any decent plan they could’ve come up with. It took a lot of effort not to make any nasty comment on this just to get the redhead to explode. That was school. That was before he relied on the Order to keep him safe. 

Granger, though, he couldn’t even look in the eye. He remembered her quiet _It’s alright_ , back when Weasley first came to yell at him, and the way she looked pained when uttering those words. It _wasn’t_ alright. Just because he didn’t like her, didn’t mean he couldn’t understand that she’d hate him. She’d punched him in the face years ago for less, and he’d never eased up on her. 

Still, he could feel her staring at him, from the moment he entered the new safehouse with Charlie Weasley and all through the meeting. He could handle all these people’s accusations. He could handle Potter’s questioning dislike. 

But he couldn’t handle that scar that peeked out from under Granger’s rolled-up sleeve. 

“I think we should ask Malfoy for some input.” 

He looked up, not entirely able to contain his surprise. He’d rarely given any input in meetings, because these people seemed plenty experienced in running this show, and they didn’t really want him here. They didn’t trust him, and as long as they would let him get away with staying safe and hidden despite that, he decided he might as well make use of that. His jumping the fray during that one raid had been... unfortunately rash. 

His arm still tingled unpleasantly at the memory. They’d healed it as much as they could, but it was a magical injury, and it had taken a while to get back to normal. 

“What the hell, Neville?” 

“He helped us a lot during that last raid,” Neville said with a shrug. “And he’s here for a reason. He’s allowed to stay so he can help out.” 

“You say that like we actually need the ferret.” 

Longbottom hesitated for a moment. “I think we’re a little beyond that. He passed all our tests.” 

Draco tried not to snap at him that _Longbottom_ was the first one to punch him in the face, but only because it would not help his case at this moment. Or his pride.

“He’s a prick.” 

“So are you, Weasel, but you don’t hear me complaining about that right now.” 

“Ron,” Lupin started. “And you too, Harry, Hermione. You’ve done excellent work these past months. You’ve been through a lot. But so have all of us. Things have changed while you were away. You’re going to have to trust our judgement on this.” 

“He was still with _them_ just weeks ago!” 

“Just weeks ago, we still had Hestia and Lee,” the former professor said calmly. “This is war. Things change. I am sorry that you have to work with people that you’ve had trouble with at school, but that’s all this is—" 

Draco’s left arm twitched involuntarily. 

“We’ve all done things we aren’t happy about for this cause, and so will you. That’s final.” 

None of them said anything after that. 

**03.07.**

“You don’t stand up for yourself,” Charlie said that night, while they were stuffing themselves with pizza on the sofa. It was a habit they’d just recently picked up, originally started by Tonks, who was a decent enough person but a horrible cook. She wasn’t here now, though. It was just the two of them tonight. 

“No use,” Draco replied. 

“Hm.” Charlie finished another large bite of pizza. “Why did you really change sides?” 

No one had asked him that question with such a lack of suspicion since he came to the Order. It was a nice relief. He hadn’t known about this older Weasley, and the older Weasley knew Draco only from stories. They’d hated each other. They’d also managed to get over it, to some extent, rather fast. 

“I did what I had to do to save my family.” 

“Harry said Dumbledore offered you sanctuary. All of you.” 

Draco stared at his half-eaten pizza, suddenly not hungry anymore. He remembered that moment vividly. He’d nearly taken the old man up on his offer. Might have, had his dear old aunt and her friends not barged in at that moment. “You don’t hide from the Dark Lord.” 

“I’d say we’re doing that just fine.” 

“You’re different.” 

“All of us?” 

He put his plate back on the table and got up. He didn’t want to deal with this conversation at this moment—or ever. “I’m going to bed.” 


	5. 04. Four. (Battling, or Becoming Part.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You need a good shag.”  
> “Merlin, Theo,” Draco snapped, taking a drag from the Muggle smoke stick that his old friend had offered him. “I’m not interested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been updating this rather fast because I'm going to be moving house the next couple of weeks (super excited!) and don't really know how much time that's going to leave me, but I'm going to try to keep it up. 
> 
> Also, you might have noticed I changed the title of this fic because, well, I liked it a bit better this way - I do hope that didn't confuse anyone too much. I've never been very good at titles...

**04.01.**

Dean Thomas became their newest housemate. 

This filled Draco with unease, because although the guy apparently did not hate him, and hadn’t stayed in the Manor’s dungeon for long, Draco still felt something that was a lot like guilt for it. He never brought up that kind of thing, though. He didn’t need to help the idea along that these people should hate him. It helped his reputation as calm and aloof, too.

There were a few people that seemed determined to make him fit in, though, which was as nice as it was frustrating. He _should_ be trying to fit in. He _wanted_ to go around sulking, as certain people called it.

“I bet you wish you could hide that hair sometimes, huh?” 

He shrugged. “Can’t all be as lucky as you.” 

Tonks winked, changing her hair back to the bright pink that she had when he first met her. She kept it a more natural colour now most of the time, usually a vague brown colour that somehow made her blend in with any background or group of people simply because it was so unremarkable. He wondered how she felt about it. 

“True,” she said. “Though I’m sure there’s an easy way to change it without my abilities. I don’t know, I never needed to learn that.” She looked thoughtful. “Would’ve been useful if I had, but I don’t think anyone in their right mind would let me near their head.” 

“You’re not _that_ clumsy. You got through Auror training. I’m pretty sure you’re a more than decent witch.” It was the first time he ever paid her a compliment. Merlin, it was probably the first time he paid _any_ Order member a compliment. 

It didn’t go unnoticed. “Thanks, cos’. You’re not so bad, yourself.” 

**04.02.**

It rarely happened that everyone who lived in the same house was there at the same time. There were meetings to attend, raids and battles to fight, family to see. Sex to be had. 

“I thought you and Potter had a thing.” 

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy.” 

He held up his hands, barely able to contain a smirk. War, in between battles and raids, was boring, and it was delightfully easy to fall back on his old favourite pastime—rail up Gryffindors. “Not judging, Red. I wouldn’t be eager to shag Scarface, either.” 

She turned about as red as her own hair. 

“You never did, did you?” He didn’t truly care about what these idiots did or didn’t do in the bedroom. He did enjoy seeing them embarrassed. “Are you the type to wait until marriage, or is he?”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she snapped. “I can’t believe I was starting to see you as someone decent.” 

“Make that two of us, then.” 

**04.03.**

He dodged a flash of blue light that he was pretty sure was an Imperius Curse, biting back some choice words that would only give him away to more people. Bloody Avery had recognized him and had somehow found the wits to understand that Draco would be most useful to them alive. 

“The trai—” 

His call for aid was silenced with a flick of Draco’s wand. Avery was slower casting non-verbal spells, too, which was an added bonus as he deflected the next one right away with a shield charm. 

Avery had never been their best dueller, but he’d clearly had more practice lately than Draco had—and Draco, for all that people blamed him for the old headmaster’s death, had never actually killed anyone directly. 

He was going to have to. 

The air was warm, almost oppressively so, though perhaps that was because of the realisation that he couldn’t let Avery escape this battle alive. Not after him having seen Draco fight for the Order so clearly. Bellatrix wouldn’t rest until he was dead. 

He ended up on the defensive. 

Avery kept shooting curses at him. It was all he could do to deflect them. _Kill him. It’s just one less Death Eater. One less problem._ He didn’t have a clue what was going on around him, who was there and who was fighting. Avery knew it. He wasn’t wearing his mask, a grin slowly spread over his face, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t speak because it was clear what he wanted to say. _You’re a weak, worthless traitor._ But he wouldn’t kill a Malfoy. Not if he could control one. 

“Incendio!” 

A shrill voice, a jet of light, and Avery’s robes were on fire. It was cast strong enough that it took no time whatsoever for it to spread. Draco was torn between looking away in horror and not being able to stop watching in morbid fascination—but he’d seen enough pain lately. He looked instead to the caster. “Granger?” 

“A thank you would suffice,” she said. “Get your bloody crap together. We have a mission.” 

It was like she hadn’t even noticed who it was that she’d just saved. She just rushed off again, into the heat of the battle near the entrance of the house, and by Merlin’s pants she was right. He’d told them he could do it, that he’d maim with the intent to kill if he had to, and all he’d been able to do was to cast a stupid Shield Charm on himself. 

He’d claimed he wasn’t just here for his own safety, and maybe he should act like it if he wanted them to let him stay.

Without one last look back at the burning Death Eater, he rushed after her. Knowing her, she would be going straight for the goal. It was his job to make sure she got there. If there was anyone he was supposed to shield, it wasn’t himself, it was her.

**04.04.**

They buried Nymphadora Tonks three days later near her parents’ house. 

He didn’t cry, or speak, or do much of anything, really. He kept himself to the back, disgustingly thankful that they hadn’t kept this from him and unwilling to ruin it by saying something that could be taken the wrong way. Tonks was the only one who’d appreciated his dark honesty. She’d been the only family member left that might have actually liked him, to some extent. 

He watched her mother—his aunt, who he’d never seen before—break down after losing both her Muggle-born husband and her daughter. He watched the shabby old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor staring at the coffin with empty eyes, and Granger crying quietly into Weasley’s shoulder, and thought their grief didn’t look much different from his own. 

He left first, quietly, back to White Brick, and locked himself into his bedroom because the living room was too grey without a flash of pink hair. 

**04.05.**

“You need a good shag.” 

“Merlin, Theo,” Draco snapped, taking a drag from the Muggle smoke stick that his old friend had offered him. “I’m not interested.” 

“I didn’t mean with _me_ ,” said Nott, shrugging. “Not that I’d decline, mind you. I just meant you need a good shag. With anyone.” 

“You say that as if there’s anyone here I’d want to shag.” 

Nott looked around. They weren’t in White Brick today, but in the garden of the Order’s Headquarters, which was buzzing with people. He’d never been allowed here before. Frankly, he was surprised by the amount of people that were apparently part of the Order—or even, the specific people. Thomas was chatting animatedly with Lovegood and Longbottom back in the living room; Charlie and Red were catching up with twin reds and the Weasel; their mother and Draco’s aunt were busying themselves in the kitchen with a man Draco had never seen before—but there were plenty more people popping in and out of the garden. He swore he’d seen that giggly Gryffindor girl Brown leave with someone who looked much too old for her. There were a bunch of Hufflepuffs of different ages, most of whom he knew mostly by face from that time he set them up against Potter in Fourth Year. 

“You say that because you think no one here wants to shag _you_ ,” Nott said. 

“Except you, apparently.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself. I get by fine without tapping your perfectly white arse.” 

Draco decided he really did not want to know, and told his old friend as much. 

“Jealousy,” Nott concluded. “Either way, you’d be surprised how well people might react if you actually made an attempt at talking to them. Cigarette?” This last question was directed at a tall guy just stepping outside, who appeared to be looking for something but found himself staring at Theo and Draco instead. A familiar face, though Draco couldn’t remember ever seeing him outside the Quidditch pitch. 

“You know I don’t smoke, Theo, I still want to play when all of this is over,” Oliver Wood said. 

“Sure,” Theo said, clearly not impressed by that argument but not willing to take it on, either. 

“What’s he doing here?” 

“Smoking and being grumpy. Don’t worry, I’m trying to teach him manners.” 

Draco didn’t take the bait. Wood shook his head in quiet disbelief and muttered something like _can’t believe they let him in here._

“You all accepted me,” Theo said. “He’s not that different. Less charming, that is true, and I’m sure _he_ wouldn’t let _you_ in either—" 

“Bloody hell, Theo,” Draco snapped. 

“I just think it would make you a lot more pleasant to deal with,” Theo said, calmly taking another drag of his cigarette. He blew the smoke out in three circles that stayed longer than they should and shot a ball of smoke through the middle one. It didn’t go unnoticed to Draco that the Quidditch player was still there, too. “You weren’t so much of a pain back when you were with Pansy.” 

He hadn’t been with Pansy long. He hadn’t taken her to bed often, either. By the time they realized that was something they didn’t mind doing together, Lucius Malfoy lost the Dark Lord’s favour and it turned too quickly from something likeable to something angry. Something to lose himself in when he couldn’t deal with anything else. 

Pansy may have been smitten with him, but she was no meek little girl who just took everything from him. 

“I wasn’t good for Pansy,” he said quietly, getting up and crunching his half-smoked cigarette under his shoe. “And I’m not good for anyone else.” 

**04.06.**

Theo was right, though. His life had been mostly stress and very little relief these past years. He hadn’t had a lot of time to think about girls ever since he first started doing so, let alone date them or sleep with them. He’d been too wrapped up in everything going on to even touch _himself_. When you’re constantly in fear of losing your family or your own life, it doesn’t do wonders for your libido. 

He hadn’t even thought about it until the Weaslette and Thomas started hooking up in the house he lived in, and even then he hadn’t really considered doing it himself. Curse Theo for putting the idea into his head. 

His hand hesitantly moved down underneath the thin covers. It had been so long that he was almost afraid of doing it again. Sex and release were something from before, from when he was just learning to be an adolescent. It was taken from him at the same time that same adolescence was. 

_Bloody hell. You’re eighteen years old and you’re too afraid to touch yourself, you pathetic old—_

His fingers wrapped around himself. 

He wondered, afterwards, what he’d been so afraid of, and why he had kept this from himself for so long. 


	6. 05. Five. (Killing, or Saving.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy never expected to be glad a Weasley was alive, but then, a lot of things had been happening lately that he’d never expected to happen.

**05.01.**

Thomas and Red stopped shagging, and there was a room unoccupied in White Brick, so naturally it was time to switch up living arrangements. 

Charlie explained that they used to switch it up more often, sometimes because it made sense for specific missions, or simply because people got tired of being holed up inside with the same people. Draco would never admit it out loud, but he’d rather enjoyed the company at White Brick. At least the people here had always treated him somewhat okay. Even Red had grown on him, in a teasing sort of way. 

So naturally, they moved him from one of their smallest houses to the biggest, because everyone knew how many people liked to be around him. 

“You’re not so bad,” Charlie said. “I wasn’t expecting much—no offence.” 

“None taken,” Draco said, because he already knew this. 

“Sorry. I knew my brothers didn’t like you, and I knew your family name.” 

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” He let the smoke escape from his lips while he spoke, colouring it slightly green. “Evil Slytherins and all that.” 

“You were.” 

“I was a brat,” he corrected the redhead. 

“You’re still a brat.” 

He laughed, an actual, genuine laugh that was short but still surprised him. “Some things never change.” 

**05.02.**

He walked into the kitchen before even realizing there was someone already there. That was something he had to get used to again—a lot of people, a lot of whom did not like him. 

And on top of that, this might be the one that disliked him most. 

“Granger.” 

“Malfoy,” she said, sounding just as unpleasantly surprised as he felt. Her hand, holding the tea pot, hovered over the sink without doing anything. “I was... just making tea.” 

“I was just getting tea,” he said, lamely. 

“Alright. I-I'll get you some.” 

He glanced at her arm, but even in the midst of summer she was wearing long sleeves. He wondered if that was because of the scar his aunt put there, and then rolled his eyes at himself because what other reason could she have? 

He waited in uncomfortable silence at the table for her to get him his tea, and then uncomfortably accepted it. Her smile was tight-lipped and insincere. 

He wanted her to hit him. Or to scream. Or to cry. He hated her for not doing any of those things. 

“Why?” she asked suddenly. 

“Why?” That could mean a lot of things. Why did you take the Mark? Why did you defect? Why do you save people that you’ve always hated? 

“Why didn’t you just sell us out?” 

Oh. That. 

“I don’t know,” he said, before really thinking about it. He’d never really thought about it back then, either. He’d been scared, and tired, and frankly simply unwilling to be a part of this war and everything that went on at the Manor, and he’d made the flash decision not to say yes. 

“Oh.” 

“I wish you people would stop acting like it was some heroic act to save you,” he admitted. 

“It wasn’t heroic,” she said. “You’ve never been a hero.” 

“No. It was the coward’s way out of massive guilt.” He got up, gestured at his untouched mug, and said, “Thanks for the tea.” 

He really wished she’d do something radical, scream or punch or curse, but she just sat there watching him as he walked away. 

**05.03.**

He’d fired the Stunning Spell before he could even consciously think about it, though it was blocked by a quiet _Protego_ charm just as quickly. 

“Merlin’s balls, Theo, don’t sneak up on a sleeping—" 

“Get over yourself,” Theo snapped, “and get up. They’ve attacked a safehouse.” 

He shot upright, scrambling to find a pair of trousers that wouldn’t sag down his ass in a fight. He didn’t dare ask. It might be White Brick, and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t mostly worry about this because they might try to pin it on him somehow. A safehouse he knew, attacked just when he’d moved out? A coincidence? 

So he didn’t ask, just followed the former Slytherin wordlessly outside to Apparate to the scene of the crime. 

It wasn’t White Brick. He barely managed to hide his relief at this. The place was somewhere in the countryside that Draco had never heard of, some cottage barely bigger than the Manor’s main sitting room. He didn’t have a clue what it was called or who was staying there about this time, but he knew one thing: Theo wouldn’t have been Secret Keeper, but Draco could still see it by his directions. 

It was also, for a good part, on fire. 

No flashes of light were visible, no signs of a fight, whether because of the fire or because they’d arrived too late. Still, the two of them approached the cottage quietly, carefully. “Who was Secret Keeper here?” 

“Mike Greening,” Theo said, a name that Draco had never heard before. “Yeah, I didn’t know him either. Think he was a spy for them?” 

_Them_ , as in _the other side_. A term a lot of people still didn’t use around Draco. “If he was, he was a wild card for their side, too. I’ve never heard of him.” 

Theo hummed in agreement. Not from a Pureblood family, then, or at least one of them would have known him. Perhaps he was just unlucky. 

Someone waved at them from afar. In the light of the fire, it was impossible to see who it was, but Theo recognized the person all the same. “It’s Longbottom,” he said, waving back and hurrying over. “What happened?” 

“No one’s sure,” Longbottom said. “Luna and Remus are checking to see if there’s anyone still there that might be saved.” 

“Who’d we lose?” 

“Not sure yet. But Hermione killed at least one of theirs. We were wondering if you might identify him for us.” 

“ _Granger_ killed someone?” 

Longbottom and Theo both shot him a look. He shrugged. “I thought you were all too goody-two-shoes for that. Sorry.” 

“It’s war,” Longbottom said, “and you may have saved people’s lives, but trust me, no one would mind if it looked like you got lost in the fire.” 

Well. 

“She let part of the wall collapsed straight onto him.” He beckoned them to follow him around the corner, blissfully away from the flames. “Hey, Hermione.” 

She was sitting there, uselessly, staring at the cloaked body in front of her that was covered in bricks. It looked like she’d taken the effort to remove some of the weight from him and gave up halfway through, even with magic. He realized she’d probably never killed anyone before. 

“It’s Greg’s Dad,” he told Theo almost right away. 

“Yeah. You killed Goyle Senior,” Theo told Granger. “Congrats.” 

She didn’t say anything. 

“Trust me,” Draco said, “he’s not much of a loss. Come on, Granger.” 

The three men looked at her in a mixture of worry and confusion. Hermione Granger, know-it-all extraordinaire, one-third of the Wonder Trio, was supposed to be a heroine. She was supposed to be better than any of them. A scholar. A fighter. Yet here she was, staring at the lifeless body of a known Death Eater like something had gone terribly wrong. 

“Longbottom,” Draco hissed, “you’re her friend. Get her out of that... state.” 

He nodded, walked up to her, and started talking quietly. 

“Who else was supposed to be in this house?” 

“The Greening guy,” Theo said. “Some former Hufflepuffs. Ron Weasley.” 

“Oh,” Draco said, looking at Granger’s empty expression. “Crap.” 

**05.04.**

Draco Malfoy never expected to be glad a Weasley was alive, but then, a lot of things had been happening lately that he’d never expected to happen.

Weasel was moved to Headquarters, where they gave him a spot on one of the higher levels and forbade anyone to enter but the old tart that had overseen the sick ward at Hogwarts. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t particularly _alive_ , either.

“Did you know?”

“Potter,” Draco said, looking up from the book he was reading in unpleasant recognition. “I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my room.”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to enter this house.”

“Most certainly true. Thankfully, you’re not in charge of that kind of thing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Though I do seem to remember you being more pleasant than this the last time I saw you. I’m actually kind of disappointed.”

“Answer the question.”

“Ask a proper one, then. What was I supposed to know?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Potter snapped. “There was an attack on a safehouse. There was a Fidelius Charm on it.”

“Indeed,” Draco said. “And do you know anything about Fidelius Charms, Potter? Have you ever taken the time to pay attention in class, or did you make Granger do all the work for you? I could have pressed my nose against the window and not realized what I was looking at, because I wasn’t told about this house until Theo took me there.”

“So—”

“It worked only because the original Secret Keeper died, Wonder Boy.” At least Potter did his best to keep Draco hating him—he was a bloody idiot. This guy was supposed to save the wizarding world? What a bloody joke. “I couldn’t have revealed it if I’d wanted to.”

Potter’s shoulders actually sagged a little. “Right,” he said. “I just didn’t want to believe—”

“You just wanted a Slytherin to have betrayed you,” Draco said coldly, “because that’s what fits into all of your heads, isn’t it? If it had been me, or Theo, that would’ve been the easy way, right? See, they’re the sons of Death Eaters. They don’t belong here. They belong in Azkaban. Don’t we?”

“Malfoy—”

He calmly marked his book and put it away before he got up and strode over to Potter, who was hovering in his doorway. He’d forgotten what a midget Scarface was. “Being the Chosen One might make you think you’re invincible, Potter,” he said, delighted when the other guy took a step backward, away from him. “But some ugly scar on your head doesn’t make you better than anyone else.”

“Neither does being a Pureblood.”

“If I didn’t know that, Potter, do you think I’d be locked in this house with your bunch?” He let out a rather undignified snort. “But apparently you do.” He stepped closer to the idiot once more. This time, Potter stood his ground, even though he had to look up to look Draco in the face. “I don’t care what kind of curses you survived or how morally better you are than all of us for refusing to kill anyone. You’re still a snotty child thinking you’re better than all of us, and if you don’t get that act out of my face, I _will_ hex your mouth shut even if it does land me with a hungry Dementor. Understood?”

Potter looked like he still wanted to argue. Draco stepped back and slammed the door shut in his face with a flick of his wand. He was going to have to magically lock it if this was what happened when he left it open.

****

**05.05.**

The only way the Death Eaters and their allies could’ve known about the safehouse was if the Secret Keeper had been a snitch, but still everyone was acting more wary around Draco. He thought he should be more angry about it. He just felt tired.

“It’s shit,” Charlie Weasley said. “I don’t care if you don’t like my brother, if we can’t trust the people who are on our side—”

“Apparently you can’t,” Draco snapped. “I had to get through the Truth Serum and the Legilimency. I had to be stuck in a room for weeks and I’m pretty sure I’ve had my nose broken more in the time I’ve been here than any of you in their entire lives, and _still_ you find some barely known guy more trustworthy than me.”

“It’s shit,” Weasley said again.

“You’re talking shit,” Draco said.

**05.06.**

He shagged a former Ravenclaw called Cho Chang not long after that. She cried afterward, but then she cried a lot anyway, so he couldn’t really get himself to care.

It didn’t make him feel much better, but it didn’t make him feel much worse, either, and at least it was a distraction. Perhaps that was why Theo cared about it so much. Everyone did need a distraction during this time—even Draco. Especially Draco.

She came to him again later, not for another round but to ask him why her. He shrugged and told her it was because she was there at the right moment, and she looked at him for a long time and nodded. “Yes, I think that’s how it works now.”

“Sure.”

He could see in her eyes that she mostly didn’t know why _she_ ’d done it with _him_. Like he wasn’t the forbidden fruit that she’d wanted to taste before she died, because that might happen any moment. Like he didn’t see the way some of the women of the Order looked at him, somehow simultaneously disgusted and interested because of the taboo that now rested on his name.

Like he didn’t look at them in exactly the same way.

War wasn’t mostly battles and fear and pain. It was mostly boredom and all the secret pleasures to chase that away.

**05.07.**

“So Chang and Potter had a good shag, I heard.”

“You heard, or you _heard_?”

Theo waggled his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind hearing Potter like that from closer up, let’s put it that way.”

“That’s disgusting, Nott,” Draco said, taking a drag from his cigarette. He didn’t look at Theo or Lavender Brown, undoubtedly the biggest two gossips in the entire Order, like two housewives who had nothing better to do than spy on their neighbours’ boring lives all day. He wished they’d get a proper mission, something more exciting than small raids that barely cost them a night. He’d thought the Order had a decent plan, back when he left his home. He’d thought the so-called Chosen One would at least have an idea of what to do, or would go ahead and confront the Dark Lord or something equally Gryffindor and stupid and heroic.

Instead, Potter and Granger kept watch at Weasley’s bed on the upper level of the house, and everything else was static, because apparently a whole bunch of mature witches and wizards couldn’t do anything without their teenage Messiah.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never left.

Those times, he made himself remember all the Cruciatuses, and all the deaths, and all the times he’d been threatened with his parents’ lives or safety, and he cried himself to sleep with dry eyes.

“I think she’s gone off the rails,” Brown whispered loudly, the way only she could. “Next she’ll be trying to shag _you_.”

“ _You_ tried to shag me,” Theo said, with no little smugness in his voice.

“That was before you became Oliver’s booty call.”

“I’m not anyone’s—”

Draco put out his cigarette on the wet stones and went inside without a word.


	7. 06. Six. (Moderating, or Patching Up.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve all got scars, Potter, and a good many of them have to do with this war. We can’t all be so lucky that they make us some famous Chosen One.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on making a new apartment your home is tough and I am constantly tired but here's another chapter!

**06.01.**

Weasley didn’t wake up for a long time, and it slowed down everyone.

Granger hid herself into her bedroom with piles upon piles of books, like she’d find a cure somewhere in there that professional Healers didn’t know about yet. Sometimes she was joined by Potter, who appeared to have renewed his drive to end this war as fast as possible. There were times where he stayed at Headquarters for days at a time, and then he’d leave for several days without a word like he got to have personal missions that were only ever joined by Granger.

Shacklebolt hated it. Everyone hated it. Potter was their selling point, the face of their rebellion. If he died, hope died with him. Even Draco understood that.

But Potter wouldn’t be Potter if he listened to sensible people.

“Harry, it’s pointless. We need two more and we don’t know where at least one of them even is.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I think we need to tell them.”

“Dumbledore—”

“Was a very wise man, Harry, but he’s not the one currently fighting this war.”

Draco finally turned the corner. He’d been about to get himself a sandwich when he heard them furiously whispering in the kitchen. Eavesdropping wasn’t a particularly good reason for him to be thrown out, but sue him if he was interested in whatever those idiots were up to, or had been before they came here.

“Malfoy,” Potter said tersely.

“Potter,” he said, trying not to give too much inflection to the name. “Granger.”

She just stared at him.

“If you two are trying to have a private conversation,” he drawled while smearing his bread with butter, when the tension in the kitchen became too much even for him, “I’d like to suggest doing it somewhere more private. Unless you two are doing _other_ things in private, of course.”

From Granger’s annoyed gasp and Potter’s expression, he knew—even if he hadn’t before—that that was definitely not the case. She was probably still waiting for Weasley to make a move on her, like she couldn’t do better than that red-headed idiot.

“Were you listening in on us?”

“I wouldn’t call it listening in when you’re having this conversation in a kitchen with the door open.”

“What’s your _problem_ , Malfoy?”

“Potter,” he said, taking a bite from his sandwich, “if you still don’t know that, then you’re dumber than I thought.”

“So enlighten us.”

His Mark was slightly visible from underneath his sleeve. Long sleeves, despite the end-of-summer heat, because two years in he still couldn’t bear to look at it.

“We’ve all got scars, Potter, and a good many of them have to do with this war. We can’t all be so lucky that they make us some famous Chosen One.”

Granger rubbed her lower arm self-consciously but didn’t say anything. For someone who was usually outspoken about her thoughts, and who had once punched him right in the face because she was annoyed with him, she was unnervingly quiet when he was around these days. He didn’t quite know why it bothered him so much.

“This two-faced ferret bothering you?”

“It’s fine, Fred,” Granger said quietly. “Thank you.”

There were simply too many Weasleys.

“Good,” this one said, eyeing Draco in a way that said it wasn’t. “Ron’s awake. But barely, so don’t go rushing in with too many expectations. Thought you two might want to know.”

They were gone before they’d even finished the words “Thank you.”

“Congratulations,” Draco said after a few seconds of awkward silence with the Weasley twin. He should’ve just ignored the guy, really. There were still plenty of people who hadn’t yet forgiven him for anything, and the Weasley twins belonged firmly in that group. Still, Draco had been here for over four months. He was tired of fleeing from these people.

**06.02.**

“What we’re going to do,” Marvin Westinburgh said, “we’ll surround it from here, here, and here.” He prodded the spots on the map, that immediately started glowing. “Everyone know what team they’re on?”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Excuse me, mister… Malfoy?” Westinburgh raised his eyebrow, a distrustful emphasis on Draco’s last name.

“I know this building. Using this spot to surround it doesn’t make sense. There are no entrances or exits here.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Yes.”

“And you know better than us how to plan a raid?”

“No,” he said, rather annoyed, “but I know better than you what the house looks like, and how Death Eaters secure their items. They come this side, it’ll be because they’re fleeing, and they’ll be dead anyway.” Anyone in that house wouldn’t be able to leave it if it were attacked, whether they were hiding documents or cursed objects—you didn’t leave the Dark Lord’s items behind to save your life. “But I don’t see why they’d be hiding anything in here.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Riddle doesn’t hide important things in unimportant places.” It was, surprisingly, Potter’s voice that spoke up. “Malfoy’s right.” He sounded like it pained him to say it. “We’d be putting people in danger for no reason.”

“Potter, I get that you’ve been allowed to feel special about this subject your whole life, but as Aurors—”

“You’ve been fighting Death Eaters,” Potter interrupted. “Not a war.”

“And how would you suggest winning a war without fighting?”

Everyone in the room was exceptionally quiet, looking from one side to the other like a fast Quidditch match. Even Draco couldn’t deny that he felt some slight appreciation for the way Potter stood up to an Auror, even though he barely had any ground for his argument. Even weeks later, no one really knew what he and his sidekicks had been up to for nearly a whole year.

“I’m not saying not to fight. I’m saying that this one isn’t the right one.”

“Then I think,” Draco said quietly, but with all eyes on him, “that it’s time you explained what you’ve been doing all this time.”

**06.03.**

Somehow, Draco was one of the people invited to the briefing; perhaps because they thought he might know something more, as though he wouldn’t have told them by now. He was tired of guessing their games. He just sat and listened.

“So there’s items that you’re looking for that will change the course of this war, is what you’re saying.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re supposed to be in significant places.” At least that lined up with what he knew about the Dark Lord, which was a whole lot less than people generally assumed because of who he was and what was on his arm.

“Yes.”

Potter still couldn’t handle telling them all of this very well. Pathetic. “So where do you think they are?”

Nothing.

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said, in that calm-but-serious voice that all of them had learned meant you better tell the truth, “you don’t need to do this alone anymore. This is too important.”

“Dumbledore—”

“—is dead!”

“Yes, and whose fault is that again?”

If his glare were a curse, Potter would be screaming in pain by now. Then again, that might go both ways. “I believe you were there yourself, Potter. If you think I’ll apologize to _you—_ ”

“That’s enough,” the werewolf cut in. “Draco, restrain yourself. Harry’s not some childhood annoyance anymore. Harry—that goes for you, too. Draco’s part of this. You two will have to deal with that.” He looked between the two of them, though neither of them said anything more. “Good. Besides, he’s right, Harry. Dumbledore… He did the best he could, but like I said before, you shouldn’t be doing all of this alone.”

His voice broke a little, there. Draco thought of the dark yet empty expression on his face when they buried Tonks, and thought he might understand, if only a little bit. He’d never had anyone like that, himself. The only one who might have been was Pansy, but that was a long time ago. She might be dead, by now.

He bit the inside of his cheek and told himself not to think about it, the way he didn’t think about anything else.

“I think at least one is at Hogwarts.”

Everyone stared.

“It makes sense.” Granger coughed a little, as though she wasn’t sure how to use her voice. A first, perhaps, for someone who used to love talking so much. “Riddle applied to be a teacher, didn’t he? He didn’t get the job, but then afterwards, no one managed to keep it for more than a year. Something always happened.”

“You’re talking about Defence.”

“Yes.” She nodded at their old teacher. “I don’t think that’s happenstance.” She looked back at Scarface, a slight twitch of annoyance in her face. He hadn’t backed her up since he’d quietly mentioned Hogwarts, as though he were actually frustrated at having to talk to others about this enormous thing. “But he must have known he wouldn’t get the job. He knew Dumbledore.”

“Hogwarts is crowded with Death Eaters.”

“How do you—”

“Because unlike you bunch, I _lived_ there for the better part of this year,” he snapped. “You all thought being on the run was bad? You thought hiding in some small house that you didn’t know was bad, without seeing most of your family?” Merlin, these people—they’d judged him for weeks, months by now, for being who he was, but they didn’t have a clue. “Did you keep anyone at the school at all?”

“Minerva told us,” Remus said.

“Yeah, I bet. I bet she told you about how there are less kids there now because there aren’t any Muggleborns left, and how Defence Against the Dark Arts turned into Dark Arts, and how we’re all required to take something that used to be Muggle Studies. I bet she told you how evil the Carrows and Snape are, and how all the Slytherins must _revel_ in all of this.” He was boiling, his nose throbbing from the ghost of all those punches it had taken in his first weeks at the Order, his head bursting with all the anger that had come his way without any attempt at learning. “Did any of you care to ask someone who was _there_?”

“I was there,” Longbottom said.

“Longbottom, your so-called brave bunch hiding up in your tower somewhere doesn’t count.”

“So tell us,” Charlie Weasley said. His was the first voice that sounded calm, that sounded like he meant what he was asking for. “Maybe we should all listen for once. We’ve barely done that since Draco came here. Wasn’t that the whole point?”

Draco nodded at him, and then—completely by accident—locked eyes with Granger, who was staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t quite place. Guarded, like she was trying to Occlude but wasn’t very practiced at it yet.

He didn’t look away. Neither did she.

“We’re Slytherins,” he said. “We’re supposed to enjoy everything that’s going on. We’ve all got family members on His side, after all, right?” It was asked rhetorically, but it was also true. “We were all supposed to practice Dark Arts on others, but we were the ones that got to do it on patrol, too. The ones that got punished harder when we didn’t do it properly. You thought it was bad when they Crucio’d you for not performing the spell on a first-year, Longbottom? Consider being Imperius’ed to do it, then being punished anyway. Consider them threatening your family. You should know what that’s like, Longbottom.” He could see in Granger’s eyes that that was a low blow, but he couldn’t get himself to care. “I’m sure this war’s been hard on you, but you didn’t get tortured every day to keep your family in line. You didn’t watch people bleed and die over your dining table. And you’re not being judged for going through what you did, whether you chose to or not.”

His eyes flicked toward Granger’s arm, then back to her face. She flushed.

“But,” he said, regaining his composure, “that isn’t something your bright side wants to hear. Not everyone has a choice. I’m sure you’ve heard of Stan Shunpike.” He thought his voice sounded like normal again, perhaps a little more high-pitched than usual, but at least he’d managed to let the heat run out. “I’m sure you’re all very sorry you killed him, too.”

He didn’t wait for their responses. He simply turned and left the room.

**06.04.**

“Sometimes I wonder who the hell you are.”

“Likewise,” Draco said. “Wood, I can get, but _Longbottom_?”

“He cleaned up nicely.” Theo shrugged. “Don’t change the subject. What happened to the famous aloof Malfoy temper?”

“I’m tired of it.”

“So we can all tell.”

“Easy for you to talk. No one knew who _you_ were.”

“No, just that my dad’s a murderous psychopath.” Theo lit another cigarette with his wand. “You keep complaining about people not liking you, but what reason have you given them otherwise?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That,” Theo said almost disparagingly, “is the bare minimum, and it’s not going to convince anyone to actually like you. I thought you did fine with your cousin and the Weasley guy.”

“Tonks died.”

“And the rest of us didn’t. Your argument’s crap.”

“Theo—”

“Granger,” Theo acknowledged the newcomer. “What can I help you with today?”

She shot a look at Draco, but decided to ignore the fact that he was there. “That book you borrowed, can you get it back to me? I need to check a few things. It’s important.”

“Sure, if you’ll let me finish my cigarette. Want one?”

She pulled a face. “Merlin, no. I don’t know how you stand them. They’re _really_ bad for your health.”

“I’m a wizard, I think I’ll survive.”

“Still—”

Draco blew out a cloud of smoke and wordlessly changed it into a book. He tried to make it fall open and have Hogwarts pop up from the inside, but it didn’t look like much. Not enough smoke. Not enough practice, even though he’d been doing this on a regular basis both with and without Theo to kill time.

Granger stared at him. He could see her eyes boring into him from the corner of his vision.

Maybe Theo was right, and he should start acting like one of these idiots. There were a few of them that already accepted him, though most of what he’d done was save them from being hit by some spell or other—Thomas, Longbottom, Lovegood. He hadn’t tried very hard since they buried Tonks, a cousin he’d hardly even expected to meet in his life, let alone enjoy talking to.

So he looked up and stared back.

“How’d you know I was looking for _Hogwarts, A History?_ ”

“Granger, you’re _always_ looking for _Hogwarts, A History._ One would think you’d know it well enough by now that you could rewrite the whole thing.”

She flushed a little. “I just need to fact-check something.”

“I’m not even laughing at you.” He smirked, though he wasn’t lying. “I rather appreciate to know that some things truly never change.”

Theo was looking between them with raised eyebrows. He’d never seen them interact before. They hadn’t interacted much before at all. Beside the fact that Granger was a Muggle-born _and_ a Gryffindor, part of Draco had always been impressed by her, if only a little bit. She was the only person that could beat him in every class. Sure, she took the time to cram entire textbooks into her head, but magic was about a lot more than theory.

He’d always hated her a little bit extra for that. She was supposed to be beneath him, after all.

“I think sometimes things do,” she said with a small nod. “Nott, you better hurry or I’m breaking into your room again, and I’d really appreciate if there aren’t any naked classmates in there this time.”

“Then don’t break into my room,” Theo said lightly, but she’d already gone back inside. He shook his head. “I swear, Draco, that one— _odd_ doesn’t even begin to describe her.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground, where the light was small but visible in the growing darkness before he snuffed it with his boot. “Guess I’d better hurry, then.”

Draco thought he should probably turn in as well—it was growing colder again in the evenings, and he wasn’t wearing much because he hadn’t had to leave the house. The coolness was rather nice, though. It kept him grounded, even though it reminded him a little of the Manor in the last years.

But then, that had been a different kind of chilly.

**06.05.**

There was a raid in the end, after all.

Someone killed Dolohov, which would be cause for celebration if he hadn’t taken one of theirs with him.

Draco wasn’t part of it. He stationed himself at Grimmauld Place and made sure everyone who apparated in was one of theirs, and good to move on to their next safehouse. It felt like the task some mother hen would undertake, but he rather liked it.

“Alright, Brown, you’re good to go,” he told the former Gryffindor after checking it was really her and she wasn’t mortally wounded. He’d barely said the words before two new faces popped in with someone hanging in between them.

“Don’t waste your time, Malfoy,” Fred Weasley said angrily, though the anger wasn’t directed at him. “He’s dead.” He made his way to the living room with his older brother at his side, softly laying down the third body on the carpet. It was Oliver Wood.

“Ah,” Draco said, because as well as he knew that you couldn’t predict anything in a war, he hadn’t been expecting this.

“The password’s ‘Kreacher’s den’,” Charlie said, sounding more tired than Draco had ever heard him. “Permission to move on to our assigned safehouse. I could really use some rest—can you bring him to Headquarters?”

He nodded quietly.

It took a while for the last people to get in, so Draco ordered Mippy to cover Wood’s body with a blanket and bring him to Headquarters, then find either Kingsley Shacklebolt or Remus Lupin if they were inside the house. They knew about Mippy. They knew what to do. “And then come back here.”

Katie Bell got in with a trail of blood, but she didn’t even look at him and refused to let him come near her. She just gave him their password and left immediately. Considering what he’d accidentally done to her not even two years ago, he didn’t blame her. She was flanked by her old Quidditch teammate, Angelina Johnson, who didn’t give him much more.

Everyone on this raid was young, like it was an easy one that didn’t need anyone of importance. Draco could feel his fists clench almost of their own volition. He wondered how many younger people were now fighting for the Dark Lord as well.

He wondered if there was going to be anything left of their generation after this war.

Granger was the last one to finally get there. It took her so long Draco was starting to think she hadn’t made it—but though she looked dirty and dishevelled, she also looked very alive. “’Kreacher’s Den’,” she said breathlessly.

“Merlin, Granger, are you—”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, recoiling a little when he took a step in her direction. That one step was enough to make her sway on her feet, though.

“Pardon me for not believing you.”

“Pardon me for not trusting you.”

Of course. “Aren’t we supposed to be over that?”

She laughed, without a trace of humour in it. “It’s not… that easy.”

“Never said it was,” he said slowly, not letting his eyes leave her. He didn’t have a clue what happened, but it wasn’t good. “Granger, I really think you should lie down.”

He saw in her eyes that she wasn’t going to listen, that she was going to try and Apparate out of the house regardless of what he thought about it. So he did the only thing he could. He quietly disarmed her.

“No!”

“Granger, for Merlin’s sake, I’m not going to kill you in your sleep,” he snapped. This time when he took a step closer, she didn’t recoil. She was too pale, and she was evidently not fully in that moment anymore.

“You could let someone in here to do it,” she muttered.

Ouch.

Luckily, wounded pride—insofar it could still hurt—didn’t lower his reflexes. He was still right in time to catch her before she hit the ground. For someone so thin and small, her limp body was still surprisingly heavy, and the couch was a lot further away than he’d imagined. “Kreacher?”

“Master Draco.” The elf was at his side scarily fast, bowing deeply. Draco had been told Kreacher used to be a very avid supporter of the House of Black and his aunt Bellatrix in particular, but that he’d come round to them later—after years of grumbling at them, insulting them, and even betraying them. It stood to reason that the elf then didn’t know what to do with Draco: the youngest descendant of the House of Black, a traitor to Bellatrix Lestrange, and only barely tolerated by the Order.

In the end, the elf’s loyalty to the old family name won out. Draco still didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Kreacher, can you get us a glass of water, a wet towel, and something fast to eat—do we still have chocolate?”

“Of course,” Kreacher said, barely sparing Granger a look before hurrying back into the kitchen.

“Master Remus has received the news, Sir,” said another high-pitched voice following a loud _crack._ “Can Mippy help with anything else?”

“Erm,” he said, a little awkwardly. “You’re a girl. Can you… check if she’s hurt anywhere?”

“I is a house-elf, master Draco, I is not a girl,” Mippy said. He didn’t think house-elves could roll their eyes even if they wanted to, but he could hear it in her squeaky voice anyway. Well. It wasn’t that he’d never touched a girl before, it was just that this was _Granger_. She already hated him enough.

He stared at the dirty curtains while Mippy checked her over, only interrupted by Kreacher coming back from the kitchen with the requested items. The old elf seemed to have some complicated feelings about Granger—he muttered something under his breath that Draco didn’t hear but could tell from the tone it was insulting, but he wasn’t actively mean to her. Draco had seen him bow neatly when they all got here before leaving for their target.

“Miss is okay, Sir,” Mippy said. “Mippy thinks Miss is asleep because Miss hurt her head.”

“Thanks, Mippy,” he said. Then, trying not to make it sound like the afterthought it was, “You too, Kreacher.”

They both bowed and left.

Draco stared at Granger.

She was pale, but there wasn’t any blood anywhere that he could see, and apparently she wasn’t injured outwardly. Her ridiculous amount of hair was spread around her head on the sofa, looking frizzier than ever. He wondered if Mippy checked there. Perhaps it was a simple concussion. That, he could fix.

Though it probably wasn’t a great idea not to put his wand away immediately.

At least hers was on the table, so the most she could do was try to smack his wand out of his hand with a shocked scream. He tucked it away quickly. “Sorry. Sorry—”

“What in the _bloody—_ ”

She got distracted by the house-elves scurrying in to see what was happening. “Is everything alright, Miss?”

“What—”

Mippy hurried toward the table, where she grabbed the chocolate bar and handed it to Granger. “Miss should be eating the chocolate,” she said sternly. “It will calm Miss down.”

“It’s alright, Mippy, I just… gave her a bit of a shock when I woke her.”

Both the elf and Granger gave him a withering look.

“Your wand is on the table,” he told her with a gesture behind him. “I had to wake you up in case you had a concussion. You should be fine now. Mippy checked for injuries and didn’t find any, but you _did_ faint.” He didn’t ask what happened, but he gave her a look that should make her tell him all the same.

She didn’t. She accepted the chocolate and took a big bite, which she flushed down with some water. “Mippy, is it?”

“She’s mine.”

“I was _not_ talking to you.”

Well, at least she seemed like nothing was permanently damaged any more than before.

“Yes, Miss,” said Mippy. “Master Draco brought Mippy to Grimmauld Place to stay with Kreacher, Miss. I is not safe in the Manor, see.”

“I do see,” she said. Draco clenched his jaw, but didn’t look away. It wasn’t his fault, what had happened. He’d beaten himself up enough over it. He left. He was here now. And he just made sure she was taken care of after what could have been a horrible injury.

“I’m going to Headquarters.”

“Like hell you are,” he said. “You’re not Apparating like that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Granger,” he said with a sigh, “I know I was a twat to you at school, but _this isn’t Hogwarts._ I’m here to make sure everyone gets back safely. You could barely Apparate _here_ without promptly fainting. I’m taking you on Side-Along.”

“I don’t think—”

“ _I don’t care._ ” He got up, towering over her still half-lying on the couch. She tried to get up, but the moment she tried more than sitting, she turned pale again. It was Mippy who pushed her back. “Master Draco is right, Miss, you should be resting. And eating chocolate,” she said pointedly.

Granger demonstratively took another bite.

“Merlin, will you _listen to me_ for once? You want to bloody Splinch yourself?” He ran a hand down his face. “I should let you do just that. You just have to be that same old bossy know-it-all even at war? You have to be some strong independent woman?”

“If it means I have to trust you—”

He wondered why she’d saved him, back in one of those first battles. It might have been a lot easier if she’d just ignored his plight altogether. She wouldn’t need to answer to anyone, because no one would’ve asked. _Oh, Malfoy’s dead. What a great loss._

He grabbed both their wands and her arm in one quick movement and Apparated them away.


	8. 07. Seven. (Reading, or Between the Lines.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Father,” Draco said, though it felt like a strange thing to call this person in front of him who didn’t look remotely like Lucius Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Lots of Cruciatus torture at the end.

**07.01.**

He was reading a book on the sofa when she quietly shuffled into the room. He ignored her. He’d had to deal with a grieving Theo all morning, who’d had to admit to himself that the Quidditch player may have been a little more in the making than just a booty call. That wasn’t something you considered during war. Not even in all that time in-between.

“You brought in a house-elf.”

“Hmm.” He flipped a page. It wasn’t a very good book. Then again, he’d borrowed it from Lovegood, so he should be glad it wasn’t about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks or something equally ridiculous.

“Why?”

He looked up, already feeling a slight annoyance bubbling up. “Because I couldn’t leave her there.”

She sat herself down on the other sofa in the room, all the way on the opposite end, and crossed her legs underneath her. She looked vulnerable in a Muggle sweater and pyjama pants. She never let anyone see her like that. It wasn’t that she put a lot of effort into her looks. She never did much of that, except that one time when they all got to dress up for that ball in fourth year. But she did always make sure to be dressed and ready for battle whenever she left her room, even if it was to get tea in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep. He did that himself often enough. He knew. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned back toward his book. He didn’t need to explain himself to her, or to any of them, all the time. He may not be some kind of mastermind that could tell them everything about Death Eater tactics—because he’d never been allowed to know any of them—but he did enough.

Granger didn’t leave. She just sat there in the corner of the couch, pulling at the sleeve of her sweater, while he pretended to keep on reading but kept going over the same sentence. There was no way he’d give up, though. That would mean they would _both_ be sitting on the sofas in silence, and that would imply they’d have to talk to each other or leave. He wasn’t inclined to do either.

“I still don’t get why you’re here.”

“It’s been six months, Granger.” His eyes didn’t leave the page, even though she had to know he wasn’t reading by now. “I still don’t get why none of you can let it go.”

“Because you’re Malfoy.”

“Astute observation.”

“And you hate us.”

“A bold assumption.” He dog-eared the page and closed the book, relishing in her pursed lips and disgruntled look for a moment before putting it away next to him. “If I hated you so much, I would hardly have saved any of your lives now, would I? Let alone stay in this house. I would think it would have burned months ago.”

She was still staring at the book, but a frown had replaced her earlier look. “So…”

“So I don’t,” he said. “Hate you. I believe we finally found something your stuffy brain cannot comprehend.”

“You’re still a twat,” she said. It was meant more as a question than an insult.

“If you’re just going to insult me, Granger, I’d like to finish my book.”

She didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t pick up his book again, either. They could hear footsteps on the first floor. A toilet flushing. It was late in the evening, and most of the Order went to bed early, for various reasons. Because they were tired. Because they were horny. Because they wanted to be alone.

“I never—” he started, but then stopped himself. “No, I did hate you.”

She let out a snort that wasn’t the least bit flattering, even on her.

“I hated you because I was supposed to be inherently better than you, and yet there you were, this bossy little Mu—ggle-born that was always _beating me_ at everything.

“Except Quidditch,” she said with a tiny smile, like she was trying an attempt at humility.

“Except Quidditch,” he said, “but then Potter had that covered.”

At least that solicited a huff that might be interpreted as a laugh. “Yes, well, I worked very hard for that.” She was looking down at her entwined fingers now. “They told me I could do magic and I would be attending this school in Scotland that no one I knew had ever heard of. Everyone was going to know magic except for me. How else was I going to fit in?”

For a moment, he felt genuinely bad for her. Then, maybe a little too much in his old drawl, “And how did that work out for you?”

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wait, let’s see. You’re smart, and famous, and a competent fighter, and you belong, well,” he gestured around him, “here, I suppose.”

“A very convincing way to end a compliment.”

“Oh, sod off, Granger,” he parroted.

“I’m not going to feel bad for you.”

“Merlin, I’d hope not. I don’t think I could handle it.”

“No,” she said, “me neither.”

**07.02.**

“Mr Malfoy.”

“Professor.” He thought he managed to keep the surprise out of his voice. Her arrival hadn’t been announced beforehand, and he hadn’t seen her since he left school for the holidays and never returned. Was she kept up to date about the comings and passings of Order members? It’d have to be done extra carefully with all the Death Eaters at Hogwarts - was he even important enough for that?

There was no sign of surprise in her expression. “I was looking for mister Potter.”

“He should be around,” Draco said.

McGonagall’s stern look had always made him feel like she was judging him silently, and it had gotten infinitely worse after the old Headmaster died, but never had he been more uncomfortable by it than today. She was trying to look right into his soul. Not literally—he’d know, he had his Occlumency walls up stronger than that wall in China. Legilimency was the snakes’ way.

He was saved from more of this misery by Granger coming down the stairs. “I heard voices,” she said, by way of explanation, then gasped when she saw who it was. “Professor McGonagall.”

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Might I request you find Mr Potter and Mr Weasley? I have something I would like to discuss with the three of you.”

Her face contorted a little at the mention of Weasel’s name. “Ron’s… not able to join. But I’ll get Harry.” And she was off upstairs again, still hurrying to do whatever a teacher asked of her.

“Wease—Weasley’s in a magical coma,” Draco said, because anything was better than another awkward silence. “Tough battle. Pomfrey doesn’t know how to fix him yet.”

McGonagall didn’t say anything to that, but she did nod thoughtfully. Draco took this as a sign to pick his book back up, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the pages again. She’d escaped Hogwarts not to talk to anyone who was looked up to as something of a leader around here, but to Potter and his sidekicks. The ones who had disappeared off the face of the planet for months before turning up at the Manor.

That meant it had to have something to do with those _items_ that they claimed would help win this war.

But when the two of them got downstairs and invited the professor into the kitchen, they closed the door and used that bothersome spell against people trying to listen in that Potter always used.

“What’s going on?”

“Potter and Granger are having a little reunion with the old cat,” Draco said.

Longbottom frowned.

“McGonagall, Longbottom, get with the program.”

“You know,” the former Gryffindor said, looking conflicted, “people would like you a lot more if you stopped demeaning them and their friends all the time.”

“It’s who I am.”

Longbottom shrugged, clearly disagreeing but not interested in making an argument for his case. “What is she doing here?”

“Said she needed to talk to Potter. Then I got locked out.”

“I’ll wait here with you for them to come back out.”

“I’m not—” He sighed. “Fine.”

“What are you reading?”

Part of the reason he almost always had a book in his hands whenever he left his room was because he genuinely liked reading. Part of the reason was also that books were a safe topic. If anyone inexplicably felt the need to talk to him about something, they could use the book as a topic. The other’s interest in having talked to him would be sated for a while, and he didn’t need to talk about anything actually important. So far, it had proven a faultless tactic.

“Some people that have never heard of decent communication absolutely hating each other but definitely going to end up married by the end of this monstrosity.” He didn’t just say it to keep up the appearance of being a permanently bored snob. This Muggle crap was boring.

“Oh,” said Longbottom, who’d probably never finished a book in his entire life.

‘Yes.”

He wondered if he should make some comment about Longbottom and Theo, but decided that he really didn’t want to know whatever Longbottom’s reaction was going to be. He would probably turn into a red and bumbling idiot the way he used to be all the time. But he was also sleeping with a Slytherin now, one who was extremely good at coming off friendly toward everyone while still being a cunning bastard.

So instead, they spent a very uncomfortable hour sitting in silence, occasionally looked at strangely by people who came downstairs to fix themselves a sandwich and had to be told that the kitchen was occupied. This wasn’t necessarily something that was questioned—it happened rather regularly around here, and people had gotten used to it enough that their hunger for snacks wasn’t going to turn them into total arseholes. Some people had taken to just summoning food with a spell that Thomas had found in an old book. It was some kind of crossing between a Summoning Spell and Apparition, and it was clearly no longer being taught in schools because of the hazards of burglary (like any well-thinking witch or wizard would sink that low).

Still, they ended up with a small group of people in the living room, Draco still pretending that his book was interesting enough to read while Longbottom, the Weaslette, and one of her twin brothers played Exploding Snap. Stupid Gryffindors and their community spirit.

It might as well have been hours before the three came back out of the kitchen. Potter looked somehow excited. Granger had a small frown on her face. McGonagall was as easy to read as always, which was to say, not at all.

“Professor!”

“Longbottom,” McGonagall said with a nod. “Weasleys.”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I must be back at the school in time. I will stay a little longer, however, until Kingsley is back.”

“What’s the reason you’re here?” Red asked, looking eager. “Did anything happen at Hogwarts?”

“Nothing more shocking than happened last year,” she said, lips pressed in a tight line. Draco could feel her eyes boring into his skull. He resolutely refused to look up. “It is not Hogwarts anymore.”

“I’m surprised it still exists at all.”

“It’s the easiest way to keep track of young people, Fred,” Granger said, looking disgusted. “And to indoctrinate them.”

“Still, he could’ve just opened his own.”

“Hogwarts was where he learned he had magic,” Potter said. “He didn’t grow up in the magical world. It was the first place he belonged. He wouldn’t want to ruin it, he’d want to run it.”

Sounds in the hallway signalled the arrival of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the moment Draco decided to go hide into his room again. He hadn’t listened in on the conversation, or heard anything that he didn’t yet know, but there was still plenty to think about.

**07.03.**

The amount of safehouses, the people that were out on missions or pretending they weren’t part of the Order, and the continuous relocation of Order members meant that Headquarters was quiet these days. That, and the length of time this war had been going on by now. It left the place dark and a little bit creepy in the evenings, with the sick ward upstairs and the quiet of the night.

War, Draco used to think, was battles, flashes of light, the stale smell of blood in the air and a lot of loud sounds that would make it impossible to sleep. In reality, most of it was waiting around, the smell of Muggle cigarettes, and a quiet so deep it chilled your bones. At first, he’d still believed that was just the Manor, for reasons much more obvious and unpleasant than its size. It wasn’t. He felt it at Hogwarts, where he’d always felt warm despite the colours of Slytherin House and the air he and his friends tried to exude. He felt it here, too, in this house full of people who neither hated him nor cared about him, where he was as far away from the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters as he would get without fleeing the country.

The sounds of war were curses and screams, but also the silence that was left afterwards, in which everyone held their breaths until something else, something horrible should happen.

He hadn’t been in any battles in a while, and he was running out of air.

**07.04.**

Potter and Granger didn’t talk about their meeting with the old professor, and they didn’t seem to actively do anything except perhaps each other, with how much they were holed up in one locked room together lately. The Weasley girl even acted a little grumpy about it every time they did. Even Draco himself couldn’t deny a pang of jealousy, though he was quite sure they were just doing research and he didn’t care to do either of them. Bloody hell, though, he would like to have _something_ to do, even if it was research.

He instead ended up getting drunk with Weaslette, Thomas and Brown and two Hufflepuffs and an older Ravenclaw he didn’t know and didn’t care to. It had been a while that they’d done such a thing, though last time there were more different people around to join them. Several of those were in other safehouses now. Some of them didn’t want to join.

Several were dead.

In fact, Draco was rather sure the main reason the Ravenclaw was there was exactly for that reason—to drink away the pain of losing her best friend. He knew this mainly because she didn’t stop talking about it, like the rest of them hadn’t lost anyone in the war. Merlin, he wanted her to shut up. He didn’t give an arse about her repressed love for the girl.

Surprisingly, the only other person who looked as disgusted as he felt was Lavender Brown.

“Does she _know_ how stupid she sounds?”

Draco thought that sounded a little rich, coming from someone who was still as big as a gossip during a war as she used to be when she was fourteen.

“Likely not,” he said drily.

“I’m not saying she can’t be sad,” Brown said, “just that she could be sad a little quieter.”

Draco snorted.

Brown looked at him.

“Didn’t know you could be so bitchy, Brown.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Malfoy.”

She was a little like a red-and-gold version of Pansy, and it triggered something in him. Something dark, but not in a magical way.

She looked like she might think the same way about him.

**07.05.**

_I think something big is about to happen._

That’s what Brown had said last night, before they had a good rough shag and went back to their separate beds. _This is the eye of the hurricane._

It would have to have something to do with Potter and Granger, because it always bloody did, and whatever secret they were keeping from the rest of them, because they always did _that_ , too. Either you didn’t have a clue what was happening or how to truly win the war, or you were Potter or his sidekicks.

In the meantime, the rest of them got to prepare for smaller battles, and stay in hiding. There were no front lines in this war, because you never knew who was on them, and who was just scared, blackmailed, or Imperiused into being part of a side they weren’t on. This wasn’t a reign of violence, it was one of quiet terror.

And violence, if you refused to listen.

The Order definitely refused to listen.

It stood to reason they’d be attacked again in time. It shouldn’t be entirely surprised that they managed to find out where their Headquarters was.

Draco was in bed, just like everyone else at that time who was staying at the house, though he wasn’t yet asleep. He’d been listening to the autumn storm outside, the rain splattering and the wind beating the windows. Fitting weather for something horrible to happen.

So, naturally, when he heard something, he first thought it was the sound of thunder in the distance. Only something wasn’t exactly right about it. Thunder had always calmed him before, as long as he was inside to merely listen and watch it. This wasn’t like that. This was dark not in a pleasant, weather-and-night kind of sense, but in a magical one.

In the past few years, he’d learned to think fast, and act fast. If you think something is magic, it probably is.

Though he’d practiced it for a bit months ago, he never learned how to produce a Patronus, let alone one that could deliver messages in his own voice. He could cast a spell that would work as an alarm for the whole house, but he wouldn’t be able to tell people what he thought was going on except by screaming it at them himself. So he did the only thing that made sense.

He barged into the next room and promptly nearly got cursed.

“Merlin’s beard, Malfoy, get the _hell out of my room!_ ”

“Save your prudish feelings for another time, Granger. We’re under attack.”

**07.06.**

Life with the Order had just as many flashes as life at the Manor, only here they weren’t interspersed with long stretches of fear but with long stretches of boredom. Both were depressing, both were lonely, and that had made him forget just how much better it was to be bored than scared.

Forgetting long stretches of boredom wasn’t such a strange thing. Forgetting how he’d gotten from being snapped at in Granger’s room to standing opposite his own father was something completely different.

In fact, the entire battle had faded to the background even as it was raging around them. Nothing that had happened—tonight, during the entire war—mattered up until this point. This _was_ the war.

“Draco.” Lucius looked tired in a very deep way. His skin wasn’t just pale, it was bordering on grey, and his once nicely styled, long blonde hair was now cropped and dirty-looking.

“Father,” Draco said, though it felt like a strange thing to call this person in front of him who didn’t look remotely like Lucius Malfoy.

There was too much to say even outside of a battle, and at the same time, nothing at all. _I’m sorry I abandoned you. I’m sorry your mother and I put us all on the wrong path. I’m sorry I failed as your son. I’m sorry I failed as your father._

The sounds of battle were far off, drowned out by the buzzing in his ears. He wanted to turn and flee, or to stay and talk, properly, for the first time in years, with his own father. He did neither. He just stood there, waiting for something to happen, for someone else to decide what to do with this situation. His Mark itched, and apparently he moved his arm because Lucius looked at it and said, “I’m sorry.”

“I chose it.”

“No,” said Lucius, “you chose this.” This house. This Order. This direction in life.

Draco shrugged.

“Get out of the way!”

That wasn’t Lucius—it was someone else who barrelled into Draco, to be followed by a flash of light that only narrowly missed them. Possibly an Unforgivable. Definitely something painful. “Theo,” Draco gasped when he recognized the person on top of him.

“What were you _thinking_ , standing still for so long?”

“I…” He looked back, but Lucius was gone, too, likely drawn back into the fight.

“Yeah,” Theo said, “I saw him. Doesn’t matter. You made your choice, and you have to stick with it now.” He scrambled up and turned just in time to deflect another curse coming their way, because even in battle Theo was a smooth fucker. “Come on, we need all the help we can get.”

Only then did the battle around them truly come back to Draco. The sounds of curses and things being blown apart. Dust. Pain, like he could physically feel everything that had been done to other Order members in this house. They were right, Draco had made his choice, and seeing his father again didn’t change anything about that.

“ _Sectumsempra!”_

Potter’s old curse had become Draco’s signature by now. Not quite the Cruciatus, but it killed faster—fast enough that most of his father’s old friends didn’t have the time to heal each other, if they knew the incantation in the first place.

It missed its mark and hit the doorframe instead, which splintered wood everywhere. He’d drawn attention to himself now. The retaliation barely missed him—he could hear it fly past his ear like an angry wasp. Someone new, someone he didn’t recognize but who did have something that looked horribly familiar peeking out from under her sleeve. It used to be an honour, only there for the closest followers

She shot something at him, wordlessly, fast enough that he only deflected it just in time. _Don’t duel by yourself. Find others first._

He ducked, dropped, rolled away in one smooth movement. Used the momentum to get back up and fire a curse over his shoulder. By the sound of it, this one hit.

There was no time to check. He ran, stumbled, ran again until he saw Thomas dueling someone all by himself, driven in a corner. It wasn’t a clean shot, so the best he could do was try to get a good Stinging Jinx in and hope it would give Thomas the second he needed to knock out his opponent.

The jinx shattered the wall behind the Death Eater, but it worked as a surprise anyway, and that would have to be enough.

He wanted to ask Thomas where everyone was, but he never got the chance. Before he could so much as open his mouth, his body suddenly seized, up in the air, his veins burning like they were filled with hot peppers.

He didn’t scream. He barely managed a gasp—of surprise, of pain, of frustration. It’d been a while since he’d had to close himself off from this sensation, and though it wasn’t the worst Crucio he’d endured, it still _hurt_. Enough to feel that the caster meant it, in some very specific way.

“Well, well. Look what we have here.”

His body wasn’t so much dropped as it was thrown on the floor. The rubble cut into his hip where it first hit the ground, though he hardly felt it. His entire skin was still abuzz. “Greg.” 

“Draco,” said Gregory Goyle. “Glad to see you’re not dead.” He lifted his wand again. “Would’ve hated to miss this.”

This torture hit harder, in a very literal way. It threw him backwards rather than up in the air, until there was no backwards left to go. Until his body and head hit the wall and made him see stars badly enough that the first seconds of the curse didn’t even register, and then it did, burning in a way the previous one hadn’t even come close to.

_Get out of your head._

It was all he could do to keep his jaw locked, to not scream. Previous battles had always been fast, kill or be killed. He hadn’t been tortured like this since he left the Manor. He should have been practicing Occlumency more. He knew how to lock his mind—he just wanted to lock himself out of it again.

“That’s for years of talking down at us,” Greg said, calmly. He hadn’t sounded so together since they were kids. “And then joining _them_.”

The curse abided, but the pain didn’t. His old friend flicked his wand, in a manner almost bored. A manner Draco used to practice. Draco didn’t recognize the curse, but he couldn’t move to find his wand if he wanted to.

“How’s that feel?” Greg smirked. “Being at my whims, for once? Don’t flick your eyes like that—your precious Order has left, didn’t you realize? Abandoned you here.” He stepped closer, his large shoes too close to Draco’s face for comfort. “We’re winning, Dray, and you’re on the wrong side.”

The boot came a lot closer, very fast. Boot to nose. Sickening crunch. The warm and disgusting feeling of blood on his face.

_Get out of your head._

He knew the next _Crucio_ was coming before it did, but this time, the pain didn’t last long. Give it a box. Put it in there. Lock it behind walls that reach the moon.

“That’s for my Dad,” he heard Greg say, but it was very far away. Draco was watching him like one of those boxes that Muggles watched, with pictures and sounds but behind a wall of glass. Somehow, he hadn’t really thought about Vincent or Gregory since he left Hogwarts permanently. Before that, even, he’d started keeping away from them, in more ways than one. They judged him for not killing the Headmaster. For trying to avoid having to punish first-years. For everything he did, because he had the Mark and he hadn’t lived up to it.

Maybe this was fairness, in a way.

There was a commotion, something he couldn’t see or hear properly but that pulled Greg’s attention away from torturing Draco. Something unexpected, with a ridiculous amount of hair and a ridiculous talent in duelling that he hadn’t seen coming, beforehand. Something that threw Greg all the way to the other side of the hall and knocked him out cold against the wall, and that grabbed Draco’s shoulder a little too tightly.

That was when the show on the Muggle box ended and the screen turned black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super happy with your kudos and comments so thanks to everyone that appreciates this so far :)


	9. 08. Eight. (Recuperating, or Healing.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never thought I could kill anyone,” she said instead, surprising both of them, “but then I did.”

**08.01.**

“You’re awake.”

“That’s the stupidest thing people ever say,” was what he said, except it only came out as an unpleasant, rasping sound.

“More water, less talking.”

He accepted the glass gratefully. What had happened? Where was he, and how had he gotten here?

The room held several beds, all of them occupied. There were no screens in between the beds, but it was still clear that this was the sick ward. Some Weasley was asleep on the other side of the room, the hair painfully bright. Pomfrey was beside the bed on his right, blocking the view of whoever was there. On his left—

“Granger?”

“Poppy said not to talk,” she said.

This wasn’t Hogwarts. Granger looked to old for it. Draco felt too old for it. Not the hospital wing, then. No—that wouldn’t be full, would it? No one would be allowed to care for others, or learn how to. Least of all Granger.

“I was visiting Ron,” she said, by way of explanation. “He’s been waking up more, but he fell back asleep.” Like he cared, in any way. “Then I thought I saw you wake up, so…”

He raised an eyebrow.

She got up. “You were gone for a while. You still breathed, but you weren’t _there._ ”

 _Not the greatest parting words_ , he wanted to tell her when she walked away to pretend to care for someone else. Weren’t Healers supposed to provide supportive words? Or just a _bye_ when they left? Not that he cared. Probably just something in the water that made him feel all woozy. Couldn’t be blamed for that.

**08.02.**

“I’m going to kill him,” Theo concluded.

“I’m sure,” Draco said.

He hadn’t realized it in the moment, but the delegation that came to attack the old Headquarters hadn’t been random. Not when it included Nott Senior, Greg Goyle, Lucius Malfoy, _and_ Blaise Zabini, the only person Theo had considered a friend back at Hogwarts. A warning, not just to Draco and Theo but to all of them. A test. Pick a side, and stick with it. Forget your old alliances. They no longer exist.

People tended to forget that out of every witch and wizard in their generation, Slytherins may have had the least choice of all. You were either on the Dark Lord’s side, or you were dead.

“Did he have it?”

Theo’s eyes flicked to Draco’s arm involuntarily. “I don’t think so.”

“You loved him.”

“No,” Theo said, “But I could have.”

**08.03.**

Headquarters had been moved to some rickety old shack that he was told was called The Burrow and belonged to the Weasleys. Unsurprisingly, he hated it. There were gnomes in the garden and a ghoul in the attic that for some inexplicable reason was wearing pyjamas, and no one in their right mind should want to live here. He didn’t wonder why it hadn’t been used as Headquarters before.

In all fairness, Molly and Arthur Weasley cared for having him inside their house about as much as he cared to be in it.

They needed new safehouses. Losing a small one hadn’t been a great deal at the time, but the Order had already lost Grimmauld Place, and now this. It was too few people in too small a space.

At the same time, it felt like people weren’t avoiding it as much as they’d been doing even in the past few weeks still. It wasn’t a good thing. It gave him a feeling that they pitied him, as though being tortured by what he once considered a friend was the worst that had happened to him in this war and suddenly he was worth a second look. Like all he’d had to do to earn their tentative trust was to get tortured by that _oaf_.

Granger, for some reason, was the worst of all of them.

Pomfrey kicked him out of the improvised sick ward soon enough, with the sage advice to “just get some rest”. He wondered if she was thinking of all those times he’d made a fool out of himself by pretending his injury was worse than it was. For all he knew, she still saw it as an insult to her healing skills. He wouldn’t entirely judge her for it.

The Burrow was smaller than their previous Headquarters, which meant that he didn’t have a room to himself this time. He shared it with Theo, who usually wasn’t any help if you wanted to sit quietly and brood but now did that exact thing himself, which was possibly even worse. It left him with the choice to either have his mood darkened further by Theo, or by everyone else.

After a few days—two, to be precise—he decided to cut his losses and pick the second option.

“If you keep staring at me, I _will_ curse you, Granger, don’t test me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She yawned. “I’m just tired.”

“No one’s forcing you to be up there pretending to be a Healer,” he said, not looking up from his book. “Just because you’ve read a whole library on the subject doesn’t mean you should be trying to be perfect at everything.”

“Your jealousy is unbecoming.”

He snorted, which was indefinitely more unbecoming. “Spare me.” She’d been trying to get Weasley to wake up from the beginning, and now that he had—once, mind you—she was rarely seen anywhere else unless she was locked away with Potter again. Pretending to help Pomfrey with fixing some tiny hurts served only to make her feel better about not being able to fix her boyfriend. Not that Draco was going to be the one to tell her that. It would imply he’d been thinking about it in the first place. Which he had, but only because he’d been right there when she did it.

“I hated you,” she finally said, “so much.”

“You’re in a long, long line of people.”

“I still do, really.”

“Ground-breaking.”

“You killed Dumbledore.”

“No,” he said evenly, “I didn’t.” If he truly had done that, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now. The Order wouldn’t have even considered taking him in without attacking him first. _He_ might not have considered it. He would’ve been rewarded instead of punished. But mainly, his mother might still be alive.

“Would you do it again? If you could go back?”

He wondered what she was trying to get out of this conversation, but a slow look up showed her expression to be entirely blank. Guarded. Not for the first time, he wondered if she’d learned Occlumency, and if she was any good at it. She seemed like the kind of person who would be. “Maybe.”

Not what she’d wanted, or perhaps even expected, to hear, judging by the look of disgust on her face. Well, screw that. He was tired of trying to explain himself. He’d tried it a few times in the beginning, when all the judgemental looks and the angry words brought his frustration to a boiling point, but that wasn’t him. A Malfoy kept their composure. Besides, they didn’t want to listen anyway.

Her look reminded him of the one she’d had in third year, just before she punched him in the face. It hadn’t hurt his face—well, it hadn’t been pleasant—so much as his pride. He’d been too shocked to retaliate even with words back then. Now, he almost wished she’d do it again. _Just give me a reason, Granger, I’ll permanently wipe your self-satisfied smile off that ugly face._

“I never thought I could kill anyone,” she said instead, surprising both of them, “but then I did.”

“You accidentally killed a Goyle and became apathetic for two days,” he said flatly.

“That doesn’t mean his life isn’t on my hands.”

“There’d be a lot more lives than just one on his hands if he were still alive.”

“I’m not going to be made to feel better about taking someone’s life.”

He shrugged. “I’m not saying you should feel good about it.” He wondered if that was the difference between _light_ and _dark_ , but he could hardly imagine no one in the Order feeling any satisfaction at all whenever a Death Eater died. “I’m saying that sometimes the right thing to do isn’t necessarily a good thing to do.”

“Is that what you tell yourself so you can fall asleep at night?”

He still hardly slept at all, but the only one who knew that was Theo, and only because he barely slept either. They would both lie awake at night, pretending to be asleep, pretending to believe the other was asleep. It was an unspoken arrangement that they both were perfectly comfortable with.

“Sure.”

“Well,” she said, getting up, “I won’t let that be who I am.”

Sometimes, it truly impressed him how righteous she still pretended to be.

**08.04.**

The days after the attack and the move were tense. They’d been lulled into what had proven a false sense of security, and now everyone was both eager to take their revenge and nervous about losing more people. Draco was surprised he and Theo hadn’t been kicked out yet, because no one knew how they’d broken through the charms at Headquarters, but one thing was sure: It had been a warning as much as anything.

The question was, for whom.

Everyone else assumed that it was about the Slytherins, that their presence had something to do with it even if at the very least this time no one yelled at them for being a snitch. But the two of them had been here too long. It didn’t make sense for this to be about them, not anymore.

“Do you think someone else tried to make a run for it?” Theo asked, days later, apparently tired of pretending he was perfectly fine and able to sleep.

“Hm?”

“You said everyone was still at school last year. But they would’ve finished last summer.”

“And?” Draco asked, not at all sure what Theo was trying to get at.

“And with our family histories, they would be expected to join the fight on their side. You know, after all the battles, and… and death.”

Oh. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“But what if—”

“Merlin, Theo, just because we decided to make a run for it doesn’t mean Blaise did the same thing,” Draco snapped. “If anyone did, it probably wasn’t someone who was there that night, would it? They’d be _too bloody tortured to stand_.” If they were still alive at all.

“Fine! Fine, be that way—”

“It’s realistic—”

“ _That makes it worse!_ ”

That was true, of course. Just because Draco knew Gregory Goyle would flourish on the side of the Dark Lord didn’t mean he’d ever expected that his former friend would gleefully torture him, which was exactly the reason he was sent to do so. Not because he was so great at the Cruciatus Curse, but because it might haunt Draco that it was _him_.

“I wish they’d died,” Theo said quietly. “All of them. Right then.”

What did you say to something like that? It was their old friends, their own fathers, and yet it was hard—if not impossible—to disagree. They should’ve stayed, and fought, and perhaps gone down with the Headquarters if it meant that they could’ve taken enough people with them. Instead they’d all fled to avoid too many more funerals. Well, this was war, and that meant funerals. And if that included his own, if that one thing he had left at this moment—his life—was what they took from him as well, then perhaps that was how it was supposed to be.

**08.05.**

“Check mate.”

“Longbottom, if anyone had ever told me beforehand that you would beat me at anything in my life, I would’ve laughed at them, and here I’m having to admit—you’re good.”

“Malfoy, if anyone had ever told me beforehand that I’d so much as sit across from you without getting cursed, I would’ve thought they’d gone crazy.” Longbottom shrugged. “War makes us do crazy things. Another match?”

“Like sleeping with the enemy.”

“Theo was never my enemy,” said Longbottom, “though I haven’t slept with him in a while.” He went to instruct his chess pieces to return to their proper places. “He’s a bit of a manwhore.”

“A bit of an unlucky one,” Draco said in defence of his friend, because he couldn’t exactly deny it.

“War isn’t a time for feelings,” Longbottom said sagely.

“Does Abbott know that?”

“Do you want a rematch or not, Malfoy?”

He smirked and moved his pieces back to where they should start.

**08.06.**

They ended up both being right, Theo and Draco.

“Master Draco, Sir.”

He jumped at the high-pitched voice. He hadn’t been expecting to hear it. “Mippy?”

“Yes, Sir. Master must come to the Grimmauld Place. Something Master Draco must see. Please,” she added. It was hard to tell sometimes with house elves, because their eyes were always huge to begin with, but she looked almost panicked.

“Right,” he said, confused. “Mippy—tell me honestly. Is this a ploy to get me away from here?”

“Not a ploy, Sir,” she said. “At least Mippy doesn’t think so. Master can bring someone else, Sir, if that makes Master feel better, but he must hurry.”

He looked at Thomas and one of the Weasley twins that were sitting at the dining table, playing cards. “If I’m not back in an hour—”

The Weasley threw something at him that he caught without thinking about it. It was small, and red, almost the colour of blood.

“If you’re not back in an hour,” Weasley said, “that’s the quickest and most painless death you’re going to get. We hope.”

“You hope.”

“We haven’t exactly gotten to test it on a person yet. Seemed to work well enough on the gnomes, though.” He looked disgusted, which could either be because of what he was saying, or because the gnomes hadn’t been pretty when they died. “We’ve thought about this before, but it never seemed—well, we haven’t exactly pitched it yet.”

“All very reassuring,” he said drily, but he did pocket the little pill. It wasn’t such a bad idea. He didn’t think he wanted to live through being caught by Bellatrix Lestrange. Her torture had been tough enough even before she truly hated him.

The Weasley didn’t smile, though. “It means I trust you to take it if you have to, Malfoy,” he said. There was a coldness in his eyes that never used to be there before, not even in serious situations. They might not have liked each other at school, but even Draco knew what kind of people the Weasley twins were. “Don’t make me doubt that.”

There was nothing he could say to that, really, so he turned to Mippy and nodded for her to Apparate them straight into the right room of the house.

The first thing—the only thing—he noticed was the shape on the bed. Someone who was supposed to be on the Dark Lord’s side. Someone their age, who knew now that coming of age and leaving school meant that something might be expected of them that they might not be willing to give. Someone that might be sent a message by the specific delegation of the recent attack.

It wasn’t Blaise, though.

It was Pansy Parkinson. Someone who hadn’t been there that night. Someone who’d been caught, shown that family bonds meant nothing to the Dark Lord if you left his side of the war, and was then tortured for even considering it herself. Someone who’d still managed to make her way to the Order in that state.

Someone who might not be alive much longer.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit, Mippy, how did she…”

“Miss Apparated on the doorstep, Sir,” Mippy squeaked. “Miss Apparated and opened the door and then fell to the floor, Sir. Mippy and Kreacher brought her to bed.” Indeed, they were in someone’s old bedroom. Surprisingly, for a house that belonged to the bloody Order of the Phoenix, it was decorated entirely in Slytherin colours. “Miss didn’t tell us much, Sir, but Miss asked for Master Draco especially, so Mippy went to get Master Draco.”

“That was… That was good of you, Mippy.” But what did he do now? He couldn’t just take her to Headquarters without permission. What if this was all a ploy? What if they’d been wrong in the first place? Draco was just assuming things, here. Plenty of other things might have happened. And yet he couldn’t just leave her here, either. If the Death Eaters were going to look for her anywhere, this would be one of the first places for them to go.

“Mippy didn’t know what to do, Sir,” Mippy said, sounding nervous.

“She can’t Apparate again like this,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the elf. “She’s going to have to stay here until she wakes up again.” He wasn’t a Healer. He still remembered his own incompetency when Granger had been laid out on the sofa downstairs like this. Except Granger had woken up pretty soon after that. Pansy didn’t look like she’d be waking up anytime soon—or at all, if he failed to do the right thing now.

“Get Pomfrey,” he said, closing his eyes with a frown. “Explain to her what happened, but quickly. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

Mippy disappeared without another word and reappeared what could be seconds or hours later with the former school nurse. Pomfrey didn’t even look at Draco. She saw Pansy, clucked her tongue, and got to work.

**08.07.**

“So how are you dealing with all this?”

“Pretty fucking shit.”

“Bloody hell,” Charlie Weasley said. “If you’re using Muggle curse words, it has to be bad.” It was meant to lighten the mood a little, but failed. He didn’t look put out by it. It was an outcome he likely suspected.

Draco hadn’t talked to the least intolerable Weasley in a while, because they’d rarely run into each other lately, but Weasel was still in the sick ward and so, now, was Pansy. It had taken a lot of discussion about admitting her into Headquarters, since they couldn’t even question her—Draco himself had passed all the tests and still not been allowed to know about their former Headquarters until much later.

So instead, he was back at White Brick, which had been converted into a makeshift hospital.

“You think she tried to run.” It wasn’t stated as a question, but it was one nonetheless.

“The Dark Lord punishes his followers for the slightest mistake,” Draco muttered, feeling his skin burn up at the mere memory, “but never to the extent that it might kill them. Not a Pureblood. There aren’t that many of us left.”

“Pretty sure he’d kill my family on sight,” Charlie said bitterly. “But I guess you’re right. We just don’t count as Purebloods anymore.”

Part of Draco wondered if that was even true. He wouldn’t put it past _Him_ to find another use for blood traitors, though that was likely not preferable to instant death. This wasn’t a subject he cared to philosophize about, though, so he simply stayed quiet.

“Oi,” said another, more unwelcome voice. “What’s _he_ doing here?” It was said in a very weak, raspy way, but that didn’t make it less annoying.

“I live here, Weasel.”

“So every time I wake up I have to find a ferret next to my bed? I’ll go back to being comatose, then.”

“Gladly.”

The older Weasley shot him a look that told him to _please shut up_. “Ron—I know you’ve missed a lot, and I know you two don’t like each other, but do try to be civil. You’re on the same side now.” He sounded tired, like he’d had this argument many times. Draco wondered if he had, without him knowing about it. It didn’t seem entirely unlikely.

The Weasel muttered something Draco couldn’t discern and didn’t care to. Pansy wasn’t going to wake up, and Draco didn’t love her enough to be insulted by Ron Weasley while he waited on her bed. He turned and left, and thought he heard Charlie say something about Potter and Granger tolerating him.

_Tolerating._ Draco had been here for months now and he was still barely tolerated, there were still people that needed to be convinced of his right to be there. With shitty arguments, too; he hadn’t actually spoken to Potter at all outside of meetings.

As for Granger—well, _tolerating_ might be the right word for what she did, but even he had to admit that was more than he deserved from her. He’d always been exceptionally hard on her at school, and then she had to get tortured in his home, too, while he stood by and did nothing. She didn’t know that was the beginning of all this, that she was the reason he even considered not going back to Hogwarts but trying his luck on the other side of the war.

He wasn’t very lucky here, either, except that at least he was still alive.


	10. 09. Nine. (Arguing, or Falling.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sounds like you’ve been fantasising about me, Granger,” he said, a slow smirk spreading on his face. “What’s next? Angry sex?

**09.01.**

He was missing things that happened.

Not in his memory or in his head—not the way his mind skipped over the most horrifying or boring parts of the war, the way he had taught himself in order to deal with everything his life had become. No, in a very literal way. He became preoccupied exactly with the kind of things he’d been avoiding since long before the ministry fell and the war officially began.

He kept a wake at Pansy’s bed, like his presence there mattered at all. He had a room to himself again here, but he often avoided it; its emptiness somehow made him think of Theo and the attack and Goyle even more than sharing a room with Theo had. His brain kept running through the memories, putting into perspective how efficient it had been to break Theo by sending the person he hated the most and the one he had loved the most, though Draco didn’t know exactly what had happened between any of them in the battle.

Strong feelings, whether love or hate, were the most powerful and dangerous things to have. Despite everything, he might envy his friend a little for having them—if only because it was a rather depressing thought that the best punishment they could’ve come up with for Draco was Gregory Goyle.

“What happened to her?”

He was too tired to be suspicious of Ron Weasley asking him questions without insulting him. “We don’t know for sure. Everything points at her having tried to turn sides and having been found out before she could manage it.”

“Huh,” Weasley said. “So…”

“So she had to feel the consequences,” he said flatly.

Weasley was quiet for a moment, which was rare enough as it was. “Is she going to make it?”

“I’m not a bloody Healer, Weasel, I don’t know!” He screwed open the flask that was always hidden in his pocket these days and took a healthy sip. He’d charmed it to refill continuously from the bottles underneath his bed—Muggle whiskey that he had Mippy steal for him. Subtly. From different stores. It was easier than getting Firewhisky these days.

Weasley looked like he wanted badly to ask for a sip before his mother came into the ward. Draco tended to hang around no matter who else was here, but he also tried to avoid Molly Weasley as much as possible. He slunk away before she could so much as acknowledge his existence, and he was quite sure they both preferred it that way.

**09.02.**

Sometimes they lost people—usually through death, because what other way was there? Once you’d committed to being in the Order, you could only win or die, and it didn’t look like they were going to be winning this war anytime soon. Sometimes new people came in—people that had been too scared before, but now had gathered the courage; people that were too young before but now could make up their own minds. The war had started with their generation as the youngest, with skilled Aurors and many other older, more experienced wizards running the show.

They were all experienced now, much more than they should have been, and with much fewer people than they should have been.

“Cheers,” Charlie Weasley said, raising his tumbler of Firewhisky, “to making it another year.”

“Yeah,” other voices rumbled, without the usual vivacity behind such a statement.

It was a select group that celebrated the new year together. Charlie and his twin brothers. A girl called Penelope Clearwater and a friend of hers whose name he didn’t catch. Angelina Johnson. Theo Nott. Neville Longbottom. Hermione Granger.

Harry Potter.

He knew that many of the older members and sympathisers had families to be with, appearances to keep up. They didn’t live at the Order’s houses, but at their own, pretending to live their lives and keep their heads down. It made these moments feel even more like it was only them fighting, though—their generation, experienced in nothing outside of school yet, experience many of them would never end up having.

And yet, they toasted.

“To Oliver,” said Fred Weasley morosely.

“To Tonks,” Charlie said, eyeing Draco , who gave him a small nod.

“And her father,” George added quietly.

“Dirk.”

“Justin.”

“Gemma,” said Penelope, though no one appeared to know exactly who that was.

“Dobby,” Potter whispered. Draco didn’t look at him when he said so.

Draco bit his lip, then said it anyway. “Narcissa Black.”

They all looked at him for just one moment—one moment of very simple and yet very complicated understanding—before Charlie said, “and any others we’ve missed—sorry about that.” As though he wasn’t talking to the memory of people who’d died but rather about a glass of spilt milk.

“Cheers,” Draco said, holding up his glass.

“Cheers,” everyone echoed, only slightly more spirited than after Charlie, then knocked back their Firewhisky. It was the strangest turn of the year Draco ever experienced—the only exception being last year, when the Dark Lord was living in his house and the only kind of thing that was celebrated was death and destruction.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” Granger said. “Celebrating New Year’s Eve this way.” She was staring into her empty glass, then looked at Potter. “I don’t think we even realized the date, last year.”

“No,” he said, “even though we did get attacked by a giant snake on Christmas Eve.”

Draco looked up at him, wondering if he was joking, or using a metaphor for… something Draco didn’t care to know, but his smile was the kind of wry one only had when something was both horrible and true.

“You never told us that,” one of the Weasley twins said. The earless one. George. “Why didn’t any of you ever tell us that?”

“It never came up,” Potter said, which was a blatant lie. He only needed open his mouth and everyone would listen with rapt attention, wanting to know every detail of what their Golden Trio had been up to in all those months they’d been gone. They’d been asked plenty of times to talk about it. They just hadn’t wanted to.

“It was hidden inside Bathilda Bagshot,” Granger said. She looked like she wasn’t entirely sure why she said anything at all.

“Excuse me,” Draco said, choking on air. “ _Inside_ Bagshot?”

“She was dead,” Granger said, by way of explanation.

“Disgusting.”

She shrugged, like it wasn’t even close to the worst she’d seen. Maybe it wasn’t. Her eyes were on Potter, though, who looked very tense. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically, “about all those great, happy things that happened to us all this year.”

“Do you _really_ want to start this year by being a twat?”

He smirked, because this was something he could do. “I start every year by being a twat, Granger.”

“You might consider a change, then.”

“Children,” said Fred Weasley, “let’s not fight on New Year’s Eve, shall we? We fight enough the rest of the year as it is.” He looked tired. Draco didn’t know the Weasley twins very well, except for their antics at Hogwarts, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen either of them looking tired. There was something lacking in his eyes, something mischievous that even he knew always used to be there but was no longer.

She looked like she wanted to argue, but then thought better of it. “Alright, but then you’re going to get me another Firewhisky. Please,” she added pleasantly when he was about to roll his eyes at her.

“You’re a _witch_. You can literally do this with the flick of your wrist.”

She just smiled, like a true Slytherin. Maybe Pansy would get along with her, if they could both get over their old grievances. Granger was a little braver, perhaps, or he would’ve thought so before Pansy turned up half-dead at Grimmauld Place. It took a lot of courage to leave everything behind, after all, especially when that everything would torture and possibly kill you for doing so.

She did get her refill. They all did. And then another, and a few more—the drinks getting less classy as the night progressed, because there was only so much good alcohol you could find in a war when you were in hiding, even with their skills. It wasn’t just the drinks, either. Draco hadn’t been this drunk since… ever, probably. Those few times he’d drank cheap alcohol in the Slytherin common room barely counted, and by the time he’d been old enough to have been allowed a drink at home, there were no more high-end parties to be held in their ballroom. He hadn’t started drinking until he started living with Gryffindors, which was something he wouldn’t have seen coming if he’d ever thought about it.

“Draco, mate,” Theo said in his ear, “you’re _pissed._ ” The slur in his words didn’t do much to help this statement, even though he might be right.

“Theo, mate—so are you.”

Theo just laughed and nodded. “Guess we deserve it, huh?” He looked up and winked at someone over Draco’s shoulder.

“Isn’t Longbottom supposed to have a girlfriend now?” It was a guess, but it was a good one.

“It’s war, it’s a celebration, and we’re all drunk. You could do with some loosening up yourself, love.”

“I’m perfectly loose.”

Theo smirked.

“Oh, sod off, Nott.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you to deal with your broody alcohol-mood by yourself. I have some actual loosening up to do.”

He wanted to say that he _really_ hadn’t needed to hear that—his brain immediately sent him to places that he didn’t necessarily care to visit—but someone else already did it for him. It was Granger. She looked almost disproportionately disgusted at Theo and Longbottom’s retreating forms. “Anything the matter, Granger?”

“I did not…” She shook her head, as if to get herself back into the present. “I did not want to think about that.” She looked like a mess. Her hair was tied in what was likely supposed to be a ponytail, but half of it had sprung out again. It made her look like a stressed scholar except for the fact that for once she wasn’t carrying books but a bottle of Muggle beer. It would look like someone who’d just had some loosening up herself, had it not been Granger.

“Never thought I’d see you getting jealous of Longbottom.”

If she were as smart as her school grades suggested, she would ignore him and walk away—but that was the thing with Granger. She never could ignore people who said something that bothered her, whether that was something inconsistent with her books, or something simply to annoy her. There was a reason he picked on her more than anyone, and it wasn’t solely because she was the only one who beat him in every single class.

“I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you aren’t.” He looked around at the other people in the room. The Weasley twins were playing with something that looked like wands which transfigured into your hands when you tried to wield them, leaving them with a rubber fish and a plush banana, apparently trying to impress the unnamed girl with them while Johnson looked on by Fred’s side and laughed. Charlie and Potter were talking animatedly to Penelope Clearwater, who looked like she was trying to impress both of them. Theo and Longbottom were gone.

“I hate this,” she said.

“That you’re here with just me for company?”

“That I’m not spending tonight with the people I care most for,” she snapped. Weasel was at the Burrow with Red and her parents—he was finally allowed out of the sick ward and transferred to his family home almost immediately. Draco was pretty sure they were spending tonight as a tight clique with the old Defence professor and the oldest Weasley son, who Draco mostly remembered because he had a severely disfigured face and an impossibly beautiful wife. There had to be other people too, but he’d lost track of who was living where by now. He thought Lavender Brown might be there. Rumour had been going around Hogwarts about some kind of love triangle in Gryffindor in sixth year, though he hadn’t really paid attention to it at the time. He wondered if it was true.

“You can do better than that, you know.”

She snorted, the kind of sound that only people make who have had too much to drink. “I do hope you’re not talking about yourself.”

He hadn’t been. He didn’t even like her. It still hurt, somehow. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Granger. Or maybe do, you might end up getting that stick out of your ass.”

“Screw you.”

“If you insist.”

Her head snapped around to look at him like someone slapped her. “You’re disgusting,” she said, with a sneer that rivalled his own.

“Well, you’re no lovely flower either, but here we are.”

She was angry, though he couldn’t pinpoint for what exact reason. Maybe it was simply about the reason she’d just given him and she was pining over Weasley from a distance, but he thought it was probably something else. Something more. Something was brewing, after all. He’d been feeling it for weeks, ever since McGonagall came in and Potter and Granger started whispering without telling anyone else what it was about. Again. Like they were the only ones who got to do anything important for this war, and the rest of them were only a distraction until they’d fulfilled their mission.

Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was angry.

“This is how the rest of us feel all the time, Granger.”

“Excuse me?”

“Left out.” He gestured at the room. “You and Potter and Weasel—you’re always like the people in this room. Or the ones not in this room.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “I really don’t care to know what you three do together all the time.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Only when it riles you up like this.” He smirked. “But I’ll take that to mean you haven’t, yet.”

“That’s not—Why am I talking to you about this?”

“Because you have no one else to talk to.”

His ears were buzzing a little from the amount of alcohol he’d drunk. Frankly, he wasn’t even sure if he was seeing entirely clearly. He just hoped there was some sober-up potion that he could get his hands on before falling asleep, because trying to find an antidote to a hangover while nursing said hangover hadn’t proven very pleasant or even successful in the past.

He was going to need to find it fast, too, because his foggy brain was starting to think about Granger shagging in a way beyond just using it as a ploy to rile her up. She wasn’t so buck-toothed as she’d once been, and in the past years she’d finally gotten that ridiculous hair slightly under control even if you could hardly tell from what it looked like right now. She didn’t have an entirely unpleasant face. Just an unpleasant personality.

She slapped him in the face. He thought he might have said that out loud.

Part of him wished she’d attack him again, but with her mouth—that she’d kiss him right here on this sofa, without caring that other people might see it. She didn’t. She knocked back her beer and stalked off.

**09.03.**

“On your left!”

He threw himself to the side just in time to avoid a green jet of light that was almost certainly a killing curse. It hit and shattered a tree instead, the remains of which immediately caught fire. _Crap._ If anyone wasn’t sure yet where they could find him, they’d know now.

He waved a hand at whoever had yelled at him in thanks—someone unrecognisable—and ran as fast as he could in the other direction. He should at least have a chance to surprise them.

He knew he’d failed when the sensation arrived of the world being covered by a dark cloak.

The world did not literally become darker, or colder. The chills had nothing to do with temperature. It was the feeling you got when _he_ was nearby, the knowledge that you were in the presence of something evil. It was a sensation that his aunt would love to be able to invoke, but that even she never fully could. Like being surrounded by a dozen dementors that you couldn’t see.

Draco would recognise it anywhere. It was, after all, how his own home had felt for months before he left it.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Oh, Merlin.

“I must admit, I had high hopes for you.”

That voice… There was really no way to describe that voice. Smooth, silky, as though it should belong to some high-end official who talked their way through anything yet always stayed pleasant. Not to someone who should sound like an actual snake.

“Such a waste…” the voice said softly. It came from nowhere and everywhere all at once; the source was invisible, but the words rang in his mind like the Dark Lord was all around him, or perhaps inside his head. “Such a waste.”

He wanted to say something snarky—a bad idea if there ever was one, but if the Dark Lord was here in person, Draco wasn’t likely to survive the day anyway, and he’d rather go out as himself than as some cowering idiot—but nothing came up in his mind, let alone out of his mouth. How pathetic.

“Such potential… such pure blood… what a pity that it should go to waste. Is it not, Lucius?”

His heart skipped a beat. Lucius wasn’t supposed to be here. This was supposed to be… what again? Why was he even here in the first place? His father was looking at him coldly—where had he come from?—with more than a little disappointment in his eyes. “Yes, my Lord.”

“And the Dark Lord must punish those who defy him… but he will reward those who do his bidding. This is a final chance for you, Lucius. Will you take it?”

“Of course. Thank you, my Lord.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

Draco woke up drenched in sweat right before the jet of green light could touch him.

_Not dead_ , he told himself. _Not real._ Like that was going to make him feel any better. Sure, at least his father hadn’t blindly obeyed the Dark Lord and killed him, but…

That _should_ be making him feel better, but it didn’t. Just because it hadn’t truly happened didn’t mean it never would. That was the effect this war had on people, wasn’t it? You didn’t just get the Mark for no reason. You were chosen, because you belonged to His most trusted, most loyal followers—all of them except for Draco, who got it as a punishment. For his father’s failure. For his family’s loyalty to each other over the self-named Dark Lord.

He was wide awake now, despite it still being the middle of the night, and he found he really didn’t want to stay in this room right now. Maybe if he went downstairs, had a nice cup of tea, he’d feel better.

He doubted it, but he was going to do so anyway.

Wand lit, he went softly down the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone else. Something was off, though. A vague light that came from the living room, flickering, like a lit candle.

_Nox._

Blanketed in dark, he tiptoed along the wall to the doorway, wand at the ready in case it was someone who wasn’t supposed to be there. If they’d found another safehouse… They hadn’t figured it out, if anyone had been betraying them or who it was, but he was still terrified he’d somehow get the blame.

“Granger?”

She looked up. “Who’s that?”

“ _Lumos._ ”

“Oh,” she said when his face became visible again in the light of his wand. “It’s you.”

“I should’ve known,” he said. “It’s always you I run into at night, isn’t it?” It’d happened only once or twice in all the months they’d both been living at the Order, and yet it had a familiar feeling to it.

She gestured at the teapot on the table. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

They sat in quiet for a few minutes before she sighed and said, “Couldn’t sleep either, I take it.”

“I never really sleep,” he said. “I mean…” His body felt wide awake, but his brain was clearly still foggy. She had to know what he meant. It had to be bothering her in her own way, too.

“I know what you mean,” she said softly. “I haven’t slept properly since… You know.” She turned her left arm, where the _mudblood_ scar was visible even despite the weak light of the candle. It looked like she’d only just received the wound. “It was cursed, I think. The knife.”

“It was.” He found himself incapable of looking away. “I’m sorry. I never did want you to get caught.”

“I know. You did refuse to identify us.”

He snorted. “That was weak,” he said, taking a sip from his tea. Chamomile. “I didn’t even do it properly.”

“It bought us time.”

“It shouldn’t have had to.”

“You can stop blaming yourself,” she said. “You didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly what I’m blaming myself _for_ , Granger.”

“I can tell you a million things that you can blame yourself for that are actually your fault.”

Ouch. She probably had a point—he hadn’t exactly been the nicest person throughout his life. He’d been arrogant and mean, and he was only party trying to atone for that. He _had_ hated her and everyone like her, too, even been proud of how high his father was in the ranks of supporters of dark magic. He was also fully aware that not everyone had forgiven him yet, both for what he’d done when he was sixteen and for his family name, but then he probably never would be fully forgiven. He was going to have to live with that. He just hoped that his being here was enough for people to allow him to live with it, at least.

“How do you really feel, Granger? About me being here.”

She sighed. Sipped some tea. Looked him in the eye and then away again. “I hate it,” she said. “And I don’t, at the same time.”

He didn’t reply, just waited for more of an explanation.

“I hate you for letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It’s your fault that Dumbledore’s dead, that Bill is so disfigured, that Lavender nearly died. I don’t care if you didn’t have a choice, or whatever I’m supposed to believe that will make it easier to accept your presence here. I don’t _care,_ because you hurt so many people. You nearly killed Katie. You nearly killed _Ron._ ”

He wondered again what was going on between her and Weasley these days, or if anything was going on between them at all. He didn’t ask.

“I hate you for being who you are,” she continued. “For being there when I was tortured and just watching, without doing anything, even if I don’t know what you could have done that wouldn’t have meant only more trouble for all of us. It’s not your fault and yet I can’t stop hating you for it. I see it at night, sometimes, that horrible chandelier and _her_ hair in my face while she hurts me and _your_ empty eyes by the fireplace, and I hate the whole lot of you, because the only way I can stop the panic is by being _angry_.”

Part of him wished he could feel that way, because angry was, at the very least, better than apathetic. She probably wouldn’t agree. He hadn’t at first, either.

“But I’m also glad that you’re here, because it means… It means people can grow up in a bad system of beliefs and still choose the right side.”

“Theo was already a pretty good example.” Better than him, anyway, because Theo had never been hurtful despite his horrible father. He kept mostly quiet back at Hogwarts, never cared to insult or jinx any classmates for being who they were, rarely even laughing about Draco’s bad jokes.

Theo, Draco realised, had always been the best of all of them. Even if he hadn’t been perfect, either.

“I suppose so,” she said. “But it’s clearer with you.”

“I thought we’d established I’m still an asshole.”

She laughed a little. “I never do know how to act around you.”

She did, though. Whenever he saw her at times like this, when they were both vulnerable from dealing with their nightmares, she was pleasant and understanding and nothing like the swot he knew from school—except for when he asked her about whatever book she was reading. When they spoke to each other in other circumstances, in the middle of the day, at a party that involved alcohol… she was simply angry.

_Because the only way I can stop the panic is by being angry._

“You did a lot better than most of your friends.”

“You get along with Charlie just fine.”

“I get along with plenty of them just fine,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true. Most of them were perfectly pleasant to him, and vice versa, but they didn’t talk to him unless they had to. That was still reserved to a handful of people. Most, surprisingly, Gryffindors.

“But?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. “I wish you would argue, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word.

“It’d be predictable,” she said, by way of explanation. “You’d say something mean. I’d get angry and feel like punching you in the face. We’d have a good argument, insult each other. Maybe send a few jinxes each other’s way that would just miss their marks. Something to let my anger out.”

“Sounds like you’ve been fantasising about me, Granger,” he said, a slow smirk spreading on his face. “What’s next? Angry sex?

“You wish.”

He put his cup back on the table and leaned forward, feeling something that might be… excitement. “Because that could be arranged, you know.”

“What the hell, Malfoy—”

His smirk only broadened. It was wrong, even having this conversation. Even _thinking_ about having this conversation. He could hear his father screaming in his mind, his aunt’s murderous eyes, but all it did was send a thrill through him. Because wasn’t this just it? The ultimate betrayal? “Surely you’ve thought about it ending that way,” he said smoothly. “A good fight, sure, but would you truly go back to bed still reeling with it? Without releasing any of that anger in a more… physical way?”

“Are you _trying_ to get punched in the face, Malfoy?” she snapped.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I don’t _believe you._ ” She put her empty mug on the table with a loud _clunk_. “One moment I think I can have a decent conversation with you, and then you have to throw it back in my face like this—and you wonder why _no one likes you_?”

“Geez, say it like it is, Granger.”

“I am.” She’d gotten up, but she didn’t more away like she normally did when she got annoyed with him. “You want me to get physical? I’ll show you—”

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t her being true to her word and slapping him in the face. Again.

He supposed he deserved that.

**09.04.**

Pansy finally woke up two days later.

Draco and Theo were at her bedside the moment they were allowed in. It made her cry. They weren’t sure if that had anything to do with them, or with seeing familiar faces in general, or something entirely different, because they were kicked out almost immediately again because “Miss Parkinson needs to rest.” Their argument that she’d had plenty of rest the past weeks was not taken fondly.

“At least she’s awake,” Theo said nervously.

“Yeah,” Draco said.

He didn’t add that he just hoped she’d woken up somewhere she’d been hoping to be, but he didn’t need to say that out loud. He knew his friend was thinking the same thing.


	11. 10. Ten. (Shagging. Just Shagging.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later, he’d know that this was the first time he ever made the decision to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my apologies for the irregularity - moving into a new house and making it all to your tastes is a lot of work.

**10.01.**

“I was _so_ scared I wouldn’t actually find you two here.” Her voice was hoarse, like she screamed her vocal chords to hell, though she’d been told they’d recover. “I thought I’d end up among all these dumb Gryffindors on my own.”

She was really saying something else, though. They all knew it. “We’re glad to see you too, Pans,” Theo said with a smirk. “Here I am, living my toughest life, and the first one of us to show up after me is _Draco_.”

“Oh yes, you have it very… hard here,” Draco said drily.

Pansy looked both confused and slightly amused at the same time. “So… all good?”

“All good,” he promised her. “You’ll fit right in.” Alright, perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, but at least everyone was sort-of used to having Slytherins around now, and she hadn’t done anything as despicable as Draco had. She should be alright.

He’d bloody murder anyone who made her feel otherwise.

“Pans,” Theo said nervously. “I mean, I get that—you’ve just told those bloody Aurors all about this under Truth Serum and all, but—”

“I’ve been thinking about it since Draco left.” Her voice was no more than a whisper by now, but they could both hear her very clearly. “Not that I wanted to do the same thing right away. _Merlin_ , I wanted my parents to _live._ ”

She didn’t mean for it to hurt him, he was sure, but it stung anyway.

“I just wondered what it would be like, you know? Hogwarts was pretty shite that last year. It’s not like I _wanted_ to torture little first-years, but—”

“You _what?_ ”

Draco forgot, sometimes, that Theo faked his flight to Germany the moment he came of age and was allowed Magic outside of school. He didn’t know what it had been like, for them. He’d done it all so well, he’d even convinced his own father that he’d up and gone and that it wasn’t worthwhile looking for him. Then again, Theo’s father never did care much for his only son in the first place.

Maybe that made things easier, in the end. Unlike himself or Pansy, Theo had never worried about his family being tortured because he’d done something wrong.

“Carrows,” he said shortly, when it was clear Pansy wasn’t going to elaborate.

His friend didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips in anger.

“But then,” Pansy continued, as though she’d never been interrupted, “then we _finished_ school, and it got so much _worse_. I mean, those kids, they’d never done anything wrong, but most of us never really could manage a proper Cruciatus Curse, could we?” She was looking at him, imploring him with his eyes to agree with her. She wasn’t wrong. He still swallowed and looked away, disgusted with himself that he’d almost forgotten about those memories. He’d stowed them away somewhere far in his mind even as they happened. They were horrible, but they weren’t even close to the worst.

He could feel Theo’s eyes on him, too, judging him—he wasn’t sure if that was for doing it at all, or for never having mentioned it.

“But then after, we had no more excuses.”

“We.”

“We,” she said, answering Theo’s question loud and clear. “Not all of us had the balls you two did, you know, but that didn’t mean—” She choked up a little. “That didn’t mean we _wanted_ to do anything… like _that_. Not _all_ of us.”

Theo looked relieved, at least. Draco wondered how much of this came from something that had been or could have been, before the war, and how much had come from romanticising it now that Blaise wasn’t here. He’d never truly noticed the two of them were anything like that, back at Hogwarts. Blaise was the kind of suave and smooth that couldn’t be learned, but that could cover up anything, and he’d never been that close to Theo. By the time Theo really grew into the kind of person he was now, Draco was struggling with bigger things.

Draco shifted uncomfortably.

Pansy’s eyes flitted toward his left arm, but she didn’t say anything. He wondered if it was judgement, or simply a reflex that she hadn’t learned to control yet. Not many people had, after all—he still didn’t have it under control himself.

“He saved me, you know,” she said, turning back to Theo. She looked very tired. All this talking must have drained her; Draco still remembered how he felt after he had to go through all his memories though Veritaserum and Legilimency. “Blaise did. I do hope he’s alright.”

Theo clenched his jaw, somewhere between anger and helplessness.

**10.02.**

Pansy did fit in rather well; so much that it surprised all of them. She never sulked, which she used to do plenty back in school, but talked to everyone who would talk back to her. She struck up a tentative friendship with Red, who ended up in the sick ward for a while after Splinching herself when being chased by the Snatcher Scabior on a quick supply run—a friendship that slightly worried all of them—and Red made sure no one gave her a hard time when she got to leave the sick ward and moved into her own room in another safehouse instead.

“You’re sulking,” Granger said. “You know, Pansy should show you that you could be completely fine here if only you put in some effort—”

“Oh, stuff it, Granger, we both know it’s not the same.”

“And besides—”

“Who are you to lecture me about sulking, anyway? I seem to recall one very grouchy Muggleborn on New Year’s Eve because she couldn’t deal with not spending it with her big schoolgirl crush.”

“This is exactly why you don’t have any friends.”

“No, I don’t have any friends because I was an asshole before, and everyone still hates me for what I did two years ago. No one hates _you_ , Granger, and yet you’re here talking to _me_ again.”

“Nobody hates you, Malfoy.”

“Tell that to Weasel,” he said. “Or my aunt.”

She deliberately ignored that last comment. “Ron doesn’t hate you.” At his incredulous snort, she added, “I never said he _liked_ you, either. You’re rather insufferable.”

“You’re a swot.”

“Great comeback, Malfoy.”

He sighed. “Do you ever get tired, Granger? Of being so morally superior to us all that you can simply look down on us and tell us how to act?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. You walk around being just as much of a separatist as I am, except from me it’s _sulking_ and _brooding_ and trying to get people to stay away from me, and for you it’s somehow something better, is it? Because the Golden Girl can do no wrong. Has it occurred to you, Granger, that people are just as nervous talking to you as they are to me?”

“I… You don’t even know—” she spluttered.

“I know as much about you as you know about me,” he said. “More, maybe, with how you dumb Gryffindors always need to be in the spotlight. Must be hard, when suddenly you’re out here in the darkness with the rest of us, isn’t it?” He thought she flinched a little, and he felt a nice flash of vindication. “Miss Perfect, always best in all her classes, always there for all the adventures at Hogwarts, always in on everything interesting and somehow still Head Girl. And then you got to be out there while we all holed up inside doing the dirty jobs of the war, traipsing around being interesting in _not_ being around…”

“Excuse me, _what_ dirty jobs did you do in the meantime again?” she snapped. “Because as I do recall, _Malfoy_ , you were simply standing around letting Death Eaters live in your house, letting them imprison your old classmates, letting them _torture_ one of them _right in front of you_ while you _stood and did nothing_. Or,” she said, looking deceptively calm after that outburst, “do I remember that wrong? Because if so…” She was slowly dragging up her sleeve, “…can you explain me where this comes from? Since I seem to remember wrong.”

He shook his head. “You think you can guilt me into backing down? You think you’re the only one of us that was tortured in that room? You think _this—_ ” He yanked up his own sleeve, “—was meant to be some freebie from being punished? It was a punishment in itself, Granger. You thought that day was bad? Imagine living it every day.”

Her eyes were glued to his arm. She looked like she was going to be sick.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he said calmly. “It hurt when he put it there, you know. No one talks about that, because if you don’t care to suffer for the Dark Lord, then you’re not worthy of this thing, but it did. Like hot pliers searing into my arm…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Granger? Don’t tell you what it was like? But everyone else does so want to know.” They did. He just hated talking about it. In fact, he didn’t think he ever told anyone out loud how much the Mark had hurt him physically when he just got it. “Does it hurt your fable on how all Death Eaters think this thing is a gift? On how we’re all willing to serve him forever, until death do us part? How we’re all sadistic shits who get off on torture and pain?”

She was backing away now, looking nervous. “I was just saying you shouldn’t sul—”

“Because you’d be right, you know.”

“…What?”

“You’d be right. Isn’t that what _you_ get off on, always being right?”

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

“They are. Sadistic assholes who get off on torture and pain.” He was no longer smirking. He didn’t know when he stopped doing it, but it must have been a while ago. “That’s why I’m not one of them.”

“They’re also all hateful bigots,” she supplied helpfully, not looking at him.

“I like to think I’m not that anymore, either.”

Truly, he hadn’t even been trying to coax her into doing… well, anything, really. He’d just needed to get that off his chest. Partly because he did feel like he should take her down a notch, because she always made him feel less like a person than anyone else did without even trying. Partly, also, because of all people, he thought she’d most understand, even if he couldn’t explain why in bloody hell that would be.

And yet here they were, her lips. On his.

It wasn’t soft, or romantic, or long-awaited. It was angry and loveless and exactly what he’d expected it to be when he’d mentioned it to her that drunken night. “I hate you,” she said breathlessly against his lips, “so much.”

He ran his fingers along the hem of her shirt, then underneath. “I know.”

She bit his lip, not entirely lightly. Then she let go of him, his hands sliding away with her movement as she turned, and walked upstairs. It wasn’t an entirely uninviting movement.

He followed.

“Close the door,” she told him, like he wasn’t already doing just that. He locked it quietly, for good measure. Everyone knew not to storm into other people’s rooms unless it was a literal matter of life and death, but then, he didn’t think Granger had truly needed to lock it until now.

“Are you going to fuck me or are you just going to stand there all day?” she snapped.

He wasn’t going to let her ask him that twice.

Later, he wouldn’t be able to remember how they got from him hoisting her up against a wall to having her on the bed. He wouldn’t remember how they’d gotten rid of their clothes, whether by magic or if they’d just undressed each other that quickly. He wouldn’t remember if they cast a Silencing Charm, or the sound of her moans (except that they were loud).

He _would_ remember how thin she was, almost scarily so, and how she hated it when he ran his hands over her non-existent stomach and slightly protruding ribs but then so liked it when they arrived at her tits.

He wouldn’t remember a lot of things, because he may have grown up believing sex was supposed to be something special but in the end It was just sex, but he’d remember the things that made it _her_.

She came with his mouth on her, and once more when he had her bent over the bed, because he might be a jerk but he did want a woman to get something out of sleeping with him. He didn’t last long himself after that second time, sweaty and tired and somewhat pleased with himself.

“Was it everything you expected of our fight?”

“Are you fishing for compliments, Malfoy?”

“I don’t need to, Granger, you were telling me quite enough without talking.”

She scrunched up her nose, but didn’t contend the fact. “Is this why you _picked_ a fight?”

“No,” he said. “I picked a fight because you’re insufferable.” Most of the time. Sometimes, whenever they ran into each other in the middle of the night because neither of them ever seemed to sleep, she was rather nice to talk to.

Maybe he just wanted to pick a fight with her for things to feel more normal.

“Hm.”

“Hm,” he parroted. He slid out of bed, put his briefs and slacks back on, and took his time buttoning up his shirt while she watched. It was somehow stranger than getting undressed, now that the high of shagging Granger was slowly receding and she was instead just staring at him. “Well,” he drawled sardonically, trying not to show any discomfort, “that was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

“In your dreams, Malfoy,” Granger said.

“Not unlikely.”

He thought the way he sidestepped the pillow she aimed at his head was rather smooth, himself.

**10.03.**

He liked to think that nothing changed, after that. Nothing had with Chang or Brown, after all, even if he had to admit that he rarely saw either of them anyway. Besides, Brown was promiscuous enough that she wouldn’t get hung up on him or get awkward around people she’d slept with, which may have been part of his consideration at the time.

Granger, however, didn’t just shag people for the hell of it, at least that he knew of—who know what she and Potter had been doing in his room all the time, or what happened when the Golden Trio was on their big camping trip.

“You may want to stop staring at her, Drake,” Theo muttered smugly.

“What?”

“Staring. Granger. Stop it.” He didn’t sound like he cared much. In fact, he sounded rather like he was enjoying himself. “Merlin, Draco, did you finally shag her or something?” It was evident in his voice that he already knew the answer.

“Not here, Nott.”

“My, my—”

“You two,” the witch at the head of the table snapped. “If you can’t keep your attention, you may leave and sit this one out.”

Draco shot Theo an annoyed look. It was the first time in what felt like forever that he was part of a battle plan again, and though he didn’t care much for being sent in the fray (because who did?), it also felt good to get a chance to _do_ something again. He’d come here for something like safety, sure, and he rather liked the idea of staying alive even if he sometimes didn’t, but by Merlin, he needed something to feel alive.

Pansy hadn’t just come with a whole lot of injuries and trauma, she’d also come with newer information than they had to date. Not as much as Draco had, if only because she didn’t have a Dark Lord living in her house, but enough to base new plans on.

Potter and Weasel weren’t there. Granger herself appeared barely there, even, which was unlike her. She was always the only one that could keep up with, well, anything. Even Binns.

Something was off.

**10.04.**

“You’re going to do something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please, enlighten me.”

“The attack,” he said. “The one you suggested. The one we just discussed. It’s a distraction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hm,” he said. “So two nights ago—that wasn’t some kind of last hurrah in case something went wrong?”

“You think I’d want my last time to be with _you_?”

He’d never so much as thought that, and he didn’t particularly care all that much, but it still stung the way she put it. He kept his face blank. “Sure, Granger, if you sleep better thinking you wouldn’t.”

**10.05.**

They did disappear, the day of the raid.

The rest of them was doing something good—Pansy had told them about Muggleborn children having been snatched from the Hogwarts Express. The poor kids would have been excited to go to school and learn about magic, getting on the train because their parents didn’t know any better. Draco hadn’t thought about this before; back when he was still in Hogwarts himself, he’d had other things on his mind than to wonder what happened to first year Muggleborns. It wasn’t until the meeting for this mission that he learned that the Order tried to find out what kids would board the Hogwarts Express for the first time that year and warn the parents that they shouldn’t, and that it sometimes worked but that they couldn’t always access the right files or reach the kids in time.

These kids had to sit in a different compartment from the rest, “so they could ‘learn about the school and the rules of the magical world’, you know, like the Heads of House used to do.” He didn’t know, but he’d nodded anyway.

And then they were Snatched.

Draco didn’t know who he could thank for them not being held at Malfoy Manor. He didn’t think he could handle being back there, and he was sure others wouldn’t care much for it, either—like Thomas, who was joining them for this mission, too.

So of course, it was the next horrible place it could possibly be. It was Nott’s.

“You okay?”

They were right there next to the mansion, almost as large and imposing as the Malfoys’ except without Lucius’ ridiculous extravaganza, both because Nott Senior had less people he cared to impress and because they were more careful with their money. Lucius had always been better at keeping his name highly esteemed than anyone else.

“I’m going to kill him.”

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Maybe Theo had always been the best of them because his father wasn’t someone he looked up to. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to tell me I can’t?”

“Would it stop you?”

Theo looked up at the house, his expression entirely blank. He was Occluding, which could mean a lot of things, very few of them any good. “No, I guess not.”

Draco nodded, not ready for any more conversation on the subject. It was a good thing that right at that moment the coin in his pocket burned hot—an invention of Granger’s, he’d been told, back when they were fifteen and had to worry about Umbridge and her Inquisitiorial Squad. About him.

He didn’t want to admit that he admired her inventiveness.

“Alright,” Theo said, his jaw tight but expression otherwise still not showing anything. “Here goes nothing.” He didn’t leave any room for reply even if there had been anything to reply. He took a swig from the flask he’d hidden in his robes.

They should’ve done this earlier, if only to check that the potion had been brewed right, but Theo had flat-out refused. They didn’t have enough hair to use, he’d argued. It had pissed off Shacklebolt, but he’d made a point.

And so now for the first time since his leaving the Manor, Draco stood face to face with Edward Nott.

He nodded.

Theo nodded back.

They’d enter the house without much fuss, Theo as his father, Draco under an old invisibility cloak of Mad-Eye Moody’s that was usually kept for supply runs. According to intel from one of the Aurors that had been monitoring the house, Nott Sr was supposed to be out right now, though if Theo was to be believed the man was rather unpredictable at times. They hoped any questions would be held back by that fact, and that the real Nott Sr wouldn’t unexpectedly turn up early.

Should anything go wrong, Draco was concealed and ready to alert other Order members before he’d inevitably be found out himself. No one in their right mind would let Theo go into this house all alone, after all.

There were surprisingly few people milling about the house—almost scarily so. If there weren’t people here, then either the kids were being held somewhere else, or the Manor was warded in ways they didn’t know about. The first option would mean a waste of time and effort. The second… he didn’t want to think about that.

It was a good thing that they got to the dungeons—and the children—without too much trouble. It was. He just didn’t fucking trust it.

The children, on their part, didn’t fucking trust them. Which was fair enough, considering one of them looked like their warden and the other wouldn’t be able to prove he wasn’t a Death Eater.

They should’ve sent Granger to do this. Someone who was like these kids. Someone who looked trustworthy.

“I’ll go,” one of two girls said. She was still wearing her Hogwarts robes, as though she was trying to make a statement by not removing the uniform the magical school would’ve required her to wear, had she ever made it there. “We know everyone that comes here. _You_ ,” she said to Draco, who’d removed the cloak to show it wasn’t just Nott standing there, “have never been here before.”

“Not usually a good qualification to trust someone,” he said.

“I’ve seen your father, I think,” she said defiantly, looking him straight in the eye and telling him without too many words that she knew who he was supposed to be. “Now get us out of here.”

This was the hard part.

These kids—there were three of them—were only eleven, and they’d never even started school, so they couldn’t do any magic beyond some accidental bursts and maybe an easy spell or two that they’d learned from their school books over the summer. They didn’t even have wands. On top of that, there was only one Cloak. They fit under it, but barely; they had to go very slowly, huddled together and crouched down to avoid their shoes being seen.

Of course, this meant Draco was out in the open now, his regular cloak covering his body and head and his hair Glamoured into a neutral brown colour that still somehow looked too dark on him. He’d still be recognized if anyone took a good look, they just hoped it would give them an extra moment to alert the others.

It was just their luck that the one person they had to run into was Vincent Crabbe.

“You’re back early.”

Theo looked slightly disgusted, which wasn’t an uncommon expression on his father’s face whenever anyone dared to speak to him. “And since when is that any of your business?”

“It isn’t,” Crabbe said, in a tone that suggested he cared very little for Edward Nott. “Who’s your friend?”

“Georg,” Theo said. “A second cousin from Germany.”

Crabbe narrowed his already beady eyes, but nodded.

Too easy, Draco thought when his former lackey walked on. Crabbe was never the brightest wand in the box, but he’d changed during their last year at Hogwarts. Draco found it hard to believe there’d be no suspicion, even from Crabbe.

He knew he was right the moment his hood flew off his head.

“Thought I smelled a traitor somewhere around.”

In his head, he told the kids to keep moving, like they’d agreed to do. Someone would be outside to get them out properly. Theo and Draco would provide a distraction inside.

“Thought I’d have a look how you’re holding up without me,” he drawled, wand out. Crabbe had been getting bloody decent at duelling and throwing curses back in their final year at school, something he never would’ve expected beforehand. This could get ugly.

Crabbe just smirked and fired a curse at him.

Salazar, Draco thought when he only managed to deflect it just in time, but Crabbe _had_ been getting better at this. He’d never been this fast with anything before—and Theo was just standing there dumbly, shell-shocked, like this wasn’t exactly what they’d expected would happen. Like he hadn’t been in a single battle since the beginning of the war.

“What’s the matter, _Draco_?” Crabbe said, his soft voice even more of a mismatch with his person than it was before. “I thought you were always so much better than us?” Flash—icy blue. Deflect. “Where’s that Malfoy pride?” Flash—bright yellow. Deflect. “Suppose you lost it when you turned tail on the Dark Lord, didn’t you?” Flash—pink. Deflect. “You were always too big a coward to receive that highest honour.” Flash—red, and the deflection wasn’t quick enough. It burned right through his sleeve. The one with the Mark. By the look on Crabbe’s face, Draco thought he might’ve tried to burn it off with this curse. Only the disappointment of only having scorched a small part of the skull gave Draco the time to finally advance. 

He didn’t talk while he shot Stunners and Body Binds at Crabbe in rapid succession, not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew he’d only try to defend himself with words. Crabbe was right, though. He had been too big a coward to do what he was supposed to, to do anything to earn that Mark.

_He_ ’d known that, too.

_Petrificus Totalus._

Crabbe was mid-taunt when the curse hit him, snapping his limbs against his body and shutting his mouth in the middle of _blood traitor._

“You’ve gotten better,” Draco said in what he hoped was a calm and collected drawl, “but I’m still a Malfoy, even if I am a traitor.”

He should do something more. End it right there. But he was still a coward, and Vincent Crabbe used to be his friend. They grew up together. It should matter that the guy would have killed him if it were the other way round, but it didn’t. Bloody Gryffindors must be rubbing off on him.

He couldn’t.

So he added some bounds around Crabbe’s torso for good measure and hovered him into the dungeons. Someone would find him there, at some point.

He just had to go look for Theo now.

*

He didn’t have to search long. 

While they were planning this, he’d thought of what it would be like to see two of the same person in the room. He hadn’t been able to properly imagine how bizarre it would look to see Edward Nott. fight Edward Nott.

Fred Weasley and Luna Lovegood were there, too, duelling Rodolphus Lestrange. Draco hoped their presence meant that they’d successfully gotten the kids to the arranged spot, where Molly Weasley would take over to get them to proper safety, and they’d come back to help them out.

There wasn’t time to check. He couldn’t let Theo fight his father by himself. One of them _would_ kill the other, and it would kill his friend either way.

Later, he’d know that this was the first time he ever made the decision to kill. He’d know that he wouldn’t have been able to _Avada_ Dumbledore back on that tower even if he had tried. You had to mean it for it to work. He’d never truly meant to kill anyone before.

He’d know that nothing had fundamentally changed about him, yet at the same time it had, because it would never again be possible not to know how that ultimate curse felt shooting out of your wand, powerful and disgusting and _thrilling_ , and not to understand how people could enjoy it. It would never be possible to erase Nott Sr’s tear-streaked face from his mind, so clearly actually Theo, and hear his whispered _thank you_.

It would never again be possible to think about that night on the tower, and all the mistakes that had led up to it, and not imagine it ending a different way.

**10.06.**

They buried Fred Weasley without his youngest brother present.

Draco kept himself in the background again, not because he didn’t think he belonged there, but because he couldn’t stand it—the desperate sobs of his mother, the empty eyes of his twin brother, the knowledge that one of the biggest jokesters Hogwarts had ever seen would never pull another prank again.

The Mark on his arm tingled, as if to remind him that he himself had now done something like this, too.

He pulled back.


	12. 11. Eleven. (More Shagging, or More Than Shagging.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Merlin, Draco, I know you don’t like any of them—I know I don’t—but we’re here now. We might as well make the best of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest thanks for everyone who took the time to comment ❤

**11.01.**

The trio returned after days of silence in good spirits, which went down quickly enough after they talked to Lupin and McGonagall, upon which they all left for The Burrow.

Draco didn’t know Fred Weasley very well, nor how it felt to have or lose a brother. He was aware he didn’t have any right to speak. But bloody hell, he wished someone would inform them as to why those three hadn’t been there in the first place. At least their initial mood suggested that whatever it was had at least succeeded.

“They’re grieving,” Pansy said. “You should give them that.”

“I know they are, I’m not completely heartless.” The mission was a win, in that they got the kids out and to a safe place not even everyone in the Order knew about. They weren’t too happy about being confined again, but at least this time they could roam around the house freely, and no one was going to practice Unforgivables on them, so Draco honestly didn’t think they got to complain too much. All of them were sick and tired of being locked up by now. Those kids didn’t get a free pass just because they were kids.

“I know you aren’t,” Pansy said quietly. “I couldn’t have loved you otherwise.”

“Merlin, Pans.”

“Please,” she said. “Like you didn’t know. I was heartbroken when you took that thing on your arm and you abandoned all of us except for those two blunderheads. You could _at least_ have talked to me and Blaise about it instead of those two.”

“I didn’t know Blaise _that_ well.”

She snorted. “You knew _me._ And Blaise didn’t torture you for the fun of it, did he?”

“Not like I knew that back then, did I?” he retorted, rolling his eyes. It hurt his pride more than a little that Goyle had managed to _Crucio_ him so badly. “Didn’t know you two were so close, anyway.”

“We hung out a lot when you were gone all the time. Theo, too.” The corners of her lips twitched a little, as though she wanted to smile but at the same time couldn’t fully get herself to do so. “I was glad to see him here.”

“Hm.”

Pansy let out a soft sigh. “You’re still not trusting any of us.”

“I didn’t think I invited you over to come dissect my mind, Parkinson.”

“I didn’t think you of all people would ever hide out in an Order safehouse, but here we both are.”

“I liked you better when you were still a bitch,” he said.

“I’d like you better if you weren’t still,” she shot back.

“That’s a lie.”

“Yeah.” She looked away. “Still. Merlin, Draco, I know you don’t like any of them—I know _I_ don’t—but we’re here now. We might as well make the best of it.”

He wondered if shagging Gryffindors was _making the best of it_.

**11.02.**

She was the first of the three to come back to another safehouse, because she wasn’t a Weasley and she was less emotional than Potter. It fell to her, in other words, to tell them what they’d been up to instead of helping their asses.

“It was something that had to be done,” she said, because that was the way it always was. Something that had to be done. Something that was more important than whatever the rest of them was doing.

“I’m sure,” said Draco.

“We’ll brief you,” she said. “Soon.”

He didn’t need a briefing. He needed an end to this continuous spiral of boredom and terror. He was tired—all of them were tired, in that bone-deep way that could only come from something deeply horrible—and he wished she’d stop talking like her words meant anything. Like speaking them somehow made anyone feel better.

“Granger,” he said, the lack of anything but a deep sigh in his voice surprising her enough that she looked at him, “unless the Da— unless _You-Know-Who_ is dead, no one cares to hear it.”

“It brought us a step closer.” There was a defiance in her voice even if it was a little weak.

“Either he’s dead, or he isn’t, Granger.”

No one came to her defence. She deflated, curling her hands around her cup of that muck she called coffee. The sight almost made him feel bad for her. Almost.

He did walk up to her, pluck the mug out of her hands, and drink the whole contents. It was disgusting. She looked annoyed and yet didn’t even bother to protest.

“Come on, Granger,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk.”

“I never said anything about talking. In fact,” he lowered his voice, “I like it better when you’re moaning.”

She flushed, looking around nervously. As though she didn’t know exactly who was in this room, and that they weren’t likely to have heard him. “Someone’s going to hear you,” she hissed. “Or notice, if we just—you know. Leave.” Her blush turned deeper. It wasn’t embarrassment.

“Can’t have anyone know the Golden Girl is shagging a serpent, can we?” He smirked. “Longbottom’s been shagging one himself, Granger, and everyone knows it. He’s not going to mind.”

“Luna—”

“Is batshit anyway.” He rolled his eyes. “But if the opinions of those two are going to stop you, I guess you’re not ready to… open up for me.” He licked his lips, slowly and deliberately. “That’s alright. I’ll find something else to eat.”

Her eyes burnt a whole in the back of his head the entire time he spent making his sandwich, even though he wasn’t even hungry.

**11.03.**

She sneaked into his room that night.

It didn’t even occur to him to make a smart-ass quip about it, because he’d been hoping she’d turn up and frankly he didn’t care much about anything but to have a good shag and to have it with her. He wanted her to boss him around until he had her mewling underneath him.

She showed him what _she_ wanted, and it was good, and then he turned the tables and took what _he_ wanted, and it was better. Her moans were soft enough that he almost didn’t hear them though the buzz in his ears, but when he asked her if she was enjoying herself, she let out a loud and breathless _yes_.

They didn’t kiss, and when they were both spent, she left again without a word.

He couldn’t think of any other person who’d made him feel both blissful and used and still left him wanting more.

**11.04.**

They did get a briefing. It wasn’t as useless as some previous ones, though no one cared to go into detail.

Someone had broken into Gringotts. More impressively, they’d broken out again. It was news that you’d assume the ministry would try to hush up, except that they’d done it by riding a dragon (yes, a real one), which would make anything rather difficult to cover up.

It wasn’t that far a stretch to assume it was a certain trio that was responsible, and apparently, that was exactly the case.

“All very impressive,” Theo said, “but what did you steal?”

“And who did you steal it from?” asked an older wizard that Draco didn’t know yet.

“Something we need to kill Riddle.” Potter looked like he still struggled _not_ saying the name. “Something vital.”

“You stole a piece of his soul,” Pansy said.

It sounded preposterous. Draco wanted to laugh. The only things that could take souls were Dementors, and they would neither only take pieces of a soul, nor take You-Know-Who’s. He gave them too many despairing souls to feast on.

Potter didn’t laugh, though. In fact, he looked rather uncomfortable.

“That’s true, then,” Pansy said. “That he has them.”

“What are you talking about, Parkinson?” Shacklebolt said slowly. Suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Potter said. “He does.”

She looked like she was going to be sick.

“Alright,” Thomas said, “that’s it. We’re all sick of being kept out of the loop. If she knows, we all get to know.”

“Dumbledore—” Potter started, then cut himself off and sighed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. We’re—we’ve been looking for Horcruxes.”

This did not prompt any kind of shocked response, which he looked like he’d been bracing himself for. Almost everyone simply looked confused. Even Draco himself hadn’t heard of them. “For what now, Potter?”

“Surprised you don’t know, Malfoy, doesn’t your family bathe in Dark Magic?” Weasel was more infuriating than ever since his brother died, which wasn’t doing much for the general atmosphere—already not particularly in high spirits.

“Ron,” Granger sighed.

Weasel looked like he wanted to snap at her, but in the end he just threw her a furious look and shut his mouth. Trouble in paradise, then. Draco wondered if Weasel knew his crush had been sleeping with other people. He wondered if Weasel knew ‘other people’ was him.

“They’re items that uh. That contain a piece of his soul.”

Now that did prompt a reaction. Confusion, mostly, and disgust. “And this could be anything?” someone asked, looking around with wide eyes.

“It could be,” Potter said. “But it isn’t. They aren’t.”

“They?”

“He made six.”

Draco barked out a laugh that was born mainly out of sheer incredulousness. Of course he had. Seven fragments of soul—the strongest magical number there was. “Six, and you know what they are,” he said. It wasn’t a question. The way Potter said _they aren’t_ suggested that those three at least had some idea, which made sense, if they had been looking for them for the better part of a year. “How many did you get?” he asked before any of them could answer his previous question.

“Four,” Potter said.

“Three,” Granger said at the same time. “Dumbledore broke the ring.”

“Wait,” said Red. “Pieces of his soul? In an inanimate object? So was the diary—”

“Yeah,” Potter said, not looking at her but at Draco for some reason, like he had anything to do with Red’s diary.

“Oh.”

“So you’re telling me,” Theo said, “that You-Know-Who stored pieces of his soul in objects, and those objects include a ring and a diary?” He sounded sceptical. “So those are the items you told us you’d been looking for?”

“A locket, too,” Granger said with a small smile.

“It’s real,” Red said. “I saw… I saw him come out of the diary. His memory, or his soul, or whatever it was. In the Chamber of Secrets.” The memory seemed to hurt her still. Arthur Weasley put his hand on her shoulder. His lips were pressed in a thin line. As opposed to Potter, he seemed to be actively trying not to look at Draco.

It only hit him then. _That_ diary. He only remembered it because Lucius had been so angry about it when he got home, because Potter had used it to free Dobby the house-elf. He’d flung the ruined book on the table and then almost immediately after, into the hearth. “I…” he started, not quite sure what to say, because it had hardly been his fault. “What happened to it?”

“Basilisk fang,” Potter said lightly.

If nothing else—because he and Potter didn’t talk—he was at least learning that all those stories appeared to be true. He wasn’t quite sure if he was jealous, impressed, or something else entirely. The way he always felt when it came to Potter and his friends, though he’d never admit it.

“I’m sure we have one of those lying around somewhere,” he said instead.

**11.05.**

“You’ve been shagging Granger,” Theo said through puffs of cigarette smoke, as if he didn’t already know about this from the first time it happened. “More than once.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “And?”

“And I think you should be careful. If those three are to be believed, the war might be over soon. You think she’s going to stick around? She’ll probably hook up with Weasley, they’ll get a bunch of kids with bushy red hair, and then they’ll break up again because I’ve never seen two people less made for each other.”

“You’ve thought a lot about that.”

“So have you,” said his friend. “I know Granger’s Muggle-born, Drake, but she wasn’t the only one in the school, and still you only bullied _her_ that much.”

“She was better than me. At everything.” He sounded like a petulant child, and he hated himself for it.

“All I’m saying, mate, is that you should be careful with her. Golden Girl, and all. ‘Sides, it’s not like you can actually take her home.”

Draco sincerely doubted he could take anyone home ever again, if the place could be called that at all. “We’re just shagging, Theo, we’re not some bunch of fourteen-year-olds who think a kiss is the same as a ring on your finger. You should know that, of all people.”

“Yes,” Theo said. “I suppose I should.”

**11.06.**

“Should we be doing this?”

“Should you be talking?”

“I mean it, Malfoy.”

“So do I.”

She was halfway through undressing, and the silk panties she was wearing were enough to make him feel hot in very specific places. The previous two times, she was wearing briefs, far more practical than something so thin and lacy. She’d looked good in them. She looked better in these.

“Granger,” he said. “You’re not going to show me your ass in that thing and then walk out on me.”

“Okay, but—”

“It’s only sex, Granger, I fail to see the problem. Now are you going to take that off or do I need to do it for you?”


	13. 12. Twelve. (Losing, or Finding.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not the only one who tried to keep his family safe above all else.”

**12.01.**

“You’re losing yourself,” Pansy told him, as though she’d been here with him for the past year and had any clue what she was talking about.

She wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t need to know that.

“You just got here,” he snapped. “You have no clue—”

“—what everyone is doing to keep their demons at bay?” she asked, arching an eyebrow that was less manicured than he remembered it being, before. “You mean I don’t know that Theo’s been sleeping around with everyone, but mainly with _Longbottom_ of all people, because it was the only way he felt like he fit in at the beginning and now he can’t stop? That when the earless twin isn’t drinking himself to death, he’s hooking up with Johnson, because they remind each other of the dead one? Oh, it’s all kinds of disturbing,” she added at the disturbed feeling he momentarily let slip on his face, “but I won’t judge. I know everyone’s vices and why they have them. I just can’t figure out your reasoning.”

Sometimes, like now, he was reminded why he never could entirely love Pansy Parkinson. She knew everything, and he meant _everything_. It was a gift (for her) or a curse (for everyone else) and even after all these years, he sometimes let himself forget about it until she had to remind him again the hard way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You slept with Granger,” she said without even looking at him. She was inspecting her nails, which looked about as horrible as anyone else’s during a war. Force of habit, perhaps.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“See, this is what I mean. The old Draco would act all calm, annoyed maybe, definitely have a proper comeback. I can’t figure out if this Order made you soft or if you were always like that and just covering it up for the sake of your reputation.”

He thought about days spent crying in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in their sixth year, because he couldn’t talk to anyone about having feelings, especially not when those feelings were fear and hurt. Maybe he had always been like that, but it hadn’t taken the Order to uncover it; it had taken the Mark.

“What’s your vice, if you’re so happy to share?”

“Please,” she said. “A lady never tells.”

“I wasn’t asking a lady.”

She looked him up and down, slowly, assessing him. “You were politer when we were back at school.” But then, she smiled. “No worries, your secret’s safe with me. I didn’t come here to stir things up. This isn’t Hogwarts.” A sigh. “But if you must know, I am having a tough time fitting in.”

“Please,” he said. “You even befriended Red.”

She didn’t reply. It hit him, then. Pansy had always been like this—easy to connect with anyone she set her mind to connecting with. At school, she’d been the most popular girl in their year in Slytherin, possibly in the surrounding years as well. Pansy was everything you would expect from a high-class lady, and like a high-class lady, it was all on the surface.

“I think I get Theo,” she said quietly.

“You’re not Lavender Brown,” Draco said with a slight of contempt, even though Brown had done nothing more shocking than Theo, and he himself had even slept with her months ago. But he didn’t care about Brown. He cared about Pansy. He cared about her not doing things just because she wanted to fit in.

“We’re all a bit broken,” she said. “Even me.” 

He thought of how much it must cost her to say that. Pansy rarely showed anyone she cared, and even less so when it was she herself that wasn’t feeling perfect. He put a hand on her knee for lack of anything decent to say.

“I thought I wasn’t Lavender Brown,” she said, her tone sounding slightly more like the old Pansy.

“Thank Salazar,” he said. 

He couldn’t help but look at people and see their vices after that talk.

Pansy was right; he didn’t see George Weasley often, but when he did, he usually had a bottle of some Muggle spirit in his hand and the only person he allowed to take it away was Johnson, usually right before the two of them disappeared. Theo, of course, he already knew to be a slut, though he supposed it made a little more sense now. Theo was good-looking. Theo was good at flirting. All he had to do was turn on the charm and let people forget who he was, or used to be.

Draco wished he could do that, but even if he had it in him, no one would bite.

Potter, he never saw, which might be _his_ thing—isolation. He didn’t want to look interested, so he never did ask why no one ever hung out with the Golden Boy except his sidekicks. Not even the female sidekick, really.

Granger’s thing, of course, was Draco himself. Bloody Pansy had made sure that he now couldn’t stop wondering what her reasons were, even though he hadn’t given half a crap before as long as they both got off on it. The sneaking into his room had happened a handful of times now, usually after they had an argument during the day. Once, they did it right after a fight—or during one, depending how you looked at it—but that required no one else to be around. Granger’s vices were secret. Everyone else got to have them, but not her.

**12.02.**

He didn’t know where it had come from, or why he hadn’t found it before. Perhaps Mippy had sneakily left it for him to find. All he knew was that it was _there_ , suddenly, and now he couldn’t stop looking at it with a feeling of… longing, perhaps.

It was a rather formal picture, as with most pictures that were ever taken in the Malfoy household. Photographs were meant to capture status, not memories, after all. His father stood tall and proud and even from the paper looked down on the observer with disdain, a hand on Draco’s shoulder. His mother was seated, back straight, wearing some of her most expensive robes. And Draco himself, of course, young enough to still want to emulate his father.

It didn’t look like a happy family portrait until you knew what to look for—the corner of Lucius’ mouth fighting not to turn up into a smile, the way Narcissa was not looking at the camera but at her son, the mirth in a young Draco’s eyes. To the casual observer, it wouldn’t mean much; it would still be an emotionless, too-official portrait of a family. But he remembered that day. He remembered himself trying so hard to be like his father that it only made him look silly, the jokes his father had made about him, his mother’s tinkling laugh.

It didn’t mean much but it meant everything, because he’d never hear those things again.

He rubbed his thumb over the photo, as though it would make him feel their presence with him. The younger Draco tilted his head just a little further. Narcissa laughed, subtly. Silently.

He folded the paper and put it into his pocket. It burned a hole in there, but he knew that he’d never go without it again.

**12.03.**

“Sometimes I’m jealous of Ron,” she admitted one night, her hands curled around a cup of tea and her legs curled under her on the sofa. Not a post-coital confessional moment. A post-nightmare one.

“Of that idiot? I wouldn’t bother.”

“He’s my friend,” she said, but there wasn’t much heat behind the scolding. She’d long given up on trying to get Draco to be nice about her friends. His comments didn’t hold the same heat that they once did, either. “I… He has his whole family here.”

“Hm,” Draco said.

“Sometimes I forget. That my parents are Muggles and don’t have a clue what’s going on, that there’s a war at all. I forget that I sent them off to the other side of the world. It’s like… I’m forgetting them the way I’ve made them forget _me._ ”

“Granger,” Draco said. “You’re not making any sense.”

She stared into her mug. “You’re not the only one who tried to keep his family safe above all else.”

“So you… moved them to Australia?”

“I _Obliviated_ them and moved them to Australia.”

“Bloody hell, Granger.”

“Yes,” she said, “I think that does summarise it rather well.”

There was a silence, just for a moment, that hung uncomfortably in the air. The kind of silence that tells you something, that shifts something that can never be shifted back. This wasn’t a confession she’d made to many people.

“You’re not forgetting them. I know _I’m_ bloody sure not forgetting my parents. You just don’t always have the presence of mind to worry about it, because you should be worrying about, I don’t know, getting cursed and killed.” He’d long finished his own tea, but pretended to take a sip anyway, for dramatic effect and to allow himself a pause. “All of us whose families are fighting in the war in some way now have family members that are _dead_.”

“I know,” she whispered, looking miserable.

“I found an old photograph,” he heard himself say. “A family photo shoot. Very formal. It’s the only one I have of me and my parents.” He didn’t know why he was telling her. She was, of course, not his family’s biggest fan. “There isn’t ever going to be another one, with or without me in it.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”

“You should complain as much as you bloody want. It’s war. Your parents don’t know who you are. Everything is shite. Why stop there? I’d like to formally complain about the company you people hold here. Too many Gryffindors.”

She let out a huff that might be interpreted as a laugh. “Definitely not too few Slytherins, now that your numbers are increasing.”

“We should’ve been here sooner. We could have found you a way to get better liquor throughout this mess. Half that Muggle stuff is terrible.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said, but there was something of a real smile showing. “I would prefer if you could arrange better food. I can’t ever see another bean again.”

“Fair enough,” he said, summoning two bottles of beer as he said it. “Might I interest you in one of your people’s more terrible inventions?”

“I thought you hated it.”

“You thought I hated you, but we still make do.”

“You’re not so bad these days,” she said, accepting the bottle and tipping it towards him.

“Or maybe everything else is so bad that I seem decent in comparison,” he replied, clinking it with his own.

**12.04.**

Supply runs were worse than battles. Draco should count himself lucky that he hadn’t been sent on many, that there wasn’t a rotational scheme that had him do this every other week, because he had to be even more careful of running into other wizards or witches than everybody else.

If a Death Eater or one of their sympathisers saw him, he was dead.

If anyone else saw him, he might well be dead, too.

He pulled the cloak tighter around him, hyperaware of any rustling sound it might make on the ground. He was nearing the shop—a small Muggle Supermarket that they knew was usually very quiet around this time of the day. He’d have to shed the cloak far enough from the entrance that they would see him coming and not raise questions about him suddenly appearing, but as close enough as possible to reduce any exposure.

He’d charmed his hair to be reddish brown for the occasion. It looked ridiculous on him.

There was no one around, so he pulled the cloak off him in one smooth movement, stuffed it in his backpack, and sauntered around the corner and into the shop like he owned the place. As if. He still hadn’t managed not to feel strange in a Muggle environment, filling his cart with a lot of fresh food and non-perishables alike (including more beans) and then rushing though the checkout where they ran all the products over a little light that _bleeped_ every time something passed it.

He _had_ figured out Muggle money, to some extent, because he wasn’t supposed to stand out and this wasn’t the type of place where any foreigner would generally pass through unless they were lost.

He threw every article in large plastic shopper bags as quickly as possible without looking too rushed. _Like a businessman_ , Granger had told him, _when you don’t want to be rude but not quite badly enough to actually not be rude._

“Big family?” the checkout guy said, eyeing all the food.

“Something like that,” Draco said, wondering when it was that this description started fitting his life.

“Well, I don’t envy you,” the man said before ringing up the price.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Draco muttered. He didn’t know much about Muggle money, but he did know he’d just spent a lot of it. He’d never worried about that before, but there was no endless Malfoy Gringotts account backing him up now. It only made him feel a little bit guilty to be spending other Order members’ money. All part of the resistance now.

He took the bags around the corner with him before sending them off to the house with a flick of his wand and following them himself after another minute under the cloak, just to check that the magic hadn’t attracted anyone unwanted. It hadn’t. This was an easy run; there had been plenty of trouble on other ones when they had to find new places to shop at and ran into Death Eaters or other vermin on the way there.

“That was a quick one,” said Terry Boot, a former Ravenclaw who’d never caught Draco’s attention in school because he was rather quiet. “No trouble?”

“None at all.”

“Lame,” Theo said.

“I find I rather like ‘lame’ these days.”

“Oh, you brought greens!” Granger said. “We could try to regrow some of this, it’d mean one less supply run and there’d be fresh food in the house—”

“Yes,” Theo said drily, “I suppose you do.”


	14. 13. Thirteen. (Bridging.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War was a state of non-being. Stasis. Purgatory.

**13.01.**

The last Horcrux, Potter claimed, was at Hogwarts.

These six words presented an almost equal amount of questions and problems.

“I thought you had two more to go,” Longbottom said. He’d become brighter during the war. He used to be slow and rather idiotic at school, really, failing the easiest spells because he forgot absolutely everything. Now, he was sharper, a better observer.

“We think the last one is the snake,” Potter said, his head held high in defiance. Now that they’d told everyone about their big secret mission, he made it a point to show people that he still knew more than everyone else. “It’s always with him. We’ll have to wait until the end with it.”

Draco thought of all the times that ugly thing had slithered through his home, somehow soundlessly, like it was spying on everything that went on in that house. Making sure that everyone behaved as they should. _Lord Voldemort knows everything that happens_ , he’d once told his followers, even though he had to know that most of them were master Occlumenses.

“Sure,” he said, remembering the terror he felt each time it had silently slithered around a corner he was just passing; terror he would try not to show. “Kill the snake last. Easy.”

Weasley shot him a dirty look for his tone. It didn’t make him feel any different.

“And what do you _think_ this one is?” Pansy asked.

“Something that once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw,” said McGonagall. Was this why she’d come to the headquarters all those weeks ago? She was rarely seen outside of Hogwarts, for her own safety because she couldn’t be found out, so the instance still stood out in Draco’s mind. “Miss Parkinson, do you know what a diadem is?”

“Of course I know what a diadem is,” Pansy said, in a tone that suggested anyone that didn’t know was a complete turd. A lot of people around her looked a little nervous, eyes checking around the room if they were the only one who didn’t know what it was and therefore a turd.

“It's a kind of crown,” said Terry Boot, in that way Ravenclaws had whenever they got a chance to show off their knowledge of something. “Ravenclaw's was supposed to have magical properties, enhance the wisdom of the wearer.”

“She wears it in her statue,” said Lovegood. Draco didn’t have a clue what statue she was talking about, but it might be somewhere around the Ravenclaw common room, because a very specific set of people looked like they either suddenly understood or were narrowing their eyes in an attempt to recall the statue, Clearwater and Chang among them.

“So that’s what we’re looking for?” asked a guy whose name Draco didn’t remember but who used to be Ravenclaw Quidditch captain. He’d conjured something in front of him, an image of something that looked to Draco like a crown with a large blue stone in the middle. It looked strangely familiar, though he couldn’t imagine where he would’ve seen it before.

“Yes, I think so,” Lovegood said dreamily, not looking particularly impressed by this show of magic. “You missed a few details, though. It’s engraved, you know, _there._ It says _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure._ ”

Draco rolled his eyes. The group of Ravenclaws, if they saw him do it, ignored him.

“But it’s _lost_ ,” said another one.

“That’s a little pessimistic, Michael.”

“It’s called the _Lost Diadem_ , Luna, it’s sort of the point.”

“Harry seems to believe it’s at Hogwarts,” Boot said.

“Then how come no one’s ever seen it?”

Everyone quieted at that, because they were all thinking it and no one had a real answer. Not even Potter, by the look of him. “I’ll find it,” he said, voice terse.

“Yes, let’s infiltrate one of the most dangerous places in Britain based on the sole plan that Potter _might_ find something we _think_ contains a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul even though it hasn’t been seen in centuries,” said Pansy. Her patience had been thin enough before the war, and it hadn’t gotten better.

Still, she wasn’t wrong.

Potter—the whole trio, but mainly Potter—hated that everyone knew his big mission now, the one he’d been doing all by himself because once upon a time an old nutcase who was now dead had told him that it was his task to do it. _“Dumbledore must have had his reasons,”_ Remus had said, _“but he’s dead, Harry, and this war has been going on for nearly two years now. It’s time to accept some help.”_

_“Alright, but under one condition. Riddle’s mine.”_

Draco didn’t see a problem with that. Potter had a hero complex. He wanted to get killed at eighteen. Let him. Maybe it would distract the Death Eaters long enough that the rest of them stood a chance.

“We’ll need a plan,” said an older Auror.

Potter’s jaw was set, and at these words, his eyes flicked toward his sidekicks, as if to say _see? I told you this would happen._ Draco wondered to what extent the three of them had ever had a plan on their search. Granger didn’t seem the type to go in without one.

He wondered if she’d tell him, if he asked, but they rarely talked anymore. She’d apparently decided that she couldn’t look him in the eye anymore outside of a bedroom, because maybe if she did they would have to acknowledge that something happened between them, and Merlin forbid anyone might notice. 

_You think she’s going to stick around?_

“We’ll need Minerva,” said Shacklebolt. “They’ll have to be prepared.”

**13.02.**

“Does it scare you?” she asked that night, when she didn’t leave right after. They were sitting in front of the open window, he smoking his second cigarette, her holding one between her fingers but barely actually using it. She hadn’t flicked off the ash for so long that it was at breaking point by itself. “The thought that it might be over soon.”

It didn’t, because he hadn’t really thought about it yet.

“No,” he said. She waited while he took another drag of his cigarette, for him to say through the smoke, “I never thought about surviving that long.”

She brought the cigarette to her lips. The ash fell to the floor with the movement. She didn’t appear to notice. The smoke looked strange coming out of her mouth, something that should not be part of her but that now was. It didn’t fit who she used to be, or even who she was now, but it was there anyway. Like many things. Like her being here with him. “Me neither,” she said.

“Don’t be daft, Granger, if anyone was ever going to survive all this, it was going to be you.”

“Bullshit,” she said, the swearword easy on her lips. “I’m a Mudblood. I’m one of Harry’s best friends.”

“You’re the smartest of all of us.”

“Books and cleverness,” she said with a small smile that Draco didn’t understand nor cared to try to.

“Sure,” he said instead. “And quick thinking. Great with nonverbal spells, which gives you an element of surprise. Not afraid to do stupid things, as shown by your tendency to follow Potter and Weasley in that stupid mission. They’d probably be long dead without you.”

“You make me sound much better than I am.”

A breeze came in through the window, blowing the cold night temperature through their sweaters. She shivered a little. He wanted to do something about it, but didn’t. Too familiar. They weren’t _that_.

“Fine. Your movements are a tad too calculated, even after knowing magic for eight years, because it’s always been something you studied more than something you _were_. You still feel shock when someone dies in battle because of you, and it makes you an unnecessary target that the rest of us must save. You’re no damsel but you’re not a bloody knight either.” Another drag, another puff. “That what you wanted to hear?”

She let out a huff of laughter. “Maybe.”

“What if you do make it?”

Her shoulders sagged. He could pinpoint the exact moment that she left the room and ended up somewhere else, somewhere far away; it was the moment something shifted in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I suppose I’ll go to Australia.”

So she wasn’t going to pretend they never had that conversation. That, he thought, was what that shift was. Acknowledgement of _something_. Undefined, but acknowledged. “I suppose that makes sense.”

He hoped she didn’t do that horrible thing where people asked _and what about you?_ He would not have an answer.

She looked down at her cigarette, which had just about burnt itself out by now. “Do you have another one of these?” And just like that, he knew she’d closed the subject again.

He wanted to say more, but he didn’t want to drive her away. It was a curious thing, this carefully constructed non-relationship of theirs and the fact that he did not want to ruin it. Curious, because it was the only thing that made him feel at ease these days, when once upon a time no one in the world had riled him up more than this woman.

So he just handed her another one, without a word.

**13.03.**

War was a state of non-being. Stasis. Purgatory. Someplace in the middle of something else, something that would later have a _before_ and an _after_ but never again a _during_ except in history lessons, but not in personal lives. Draco didn’t know how to look back and say _this is when the war started_ , and he wondered if there would be a way to tell when it ended.

If it ever did at all.

He wondered where his nights with Hermione Granger would fit into that, neither _before_ nor _after_ , and if that meant that they’d never really happened at all because it was only because of the war and war did strange things to people. The things you did during the war didn’t count as real. He hadn’t really killed people. He hadn’t really shagged the most infuriating Muggle-born their age.

She hadn’t really fallen asleep in his bed.

She never had before, and he was rather sure this was an accident, but here she was, almost naked except for the panties that she’d put back on for some reason, _sleeping_.

And snoring, a little.

Worse, it was _cute._

The whiskey burnt a little with every sip, but it was worth it if it helped him get through this. Hopefully it’d help him fall asleep, for lack of a good potion, because he did not want to be the type of creep that stared at sleeping women but…

Merlin, he’d need a lot more of this stuff.

**13.04.**

Lavender Brown took two days to die.

It looked like the work of Fenrir Greyback, who’d attacked her before when Draco had let him into the school—a consequence he’d always regretted, because no one in their right mind wanted Greyback anywhere near their friends or even their rivals. It had taken him two years, but he’d finally come to finish the job.

Draco couldn’t look at it.

She wasn’t in the sick ward, like anyone else who had suffered an attack, because anyone could see right away that not even the best Healer could fix this. Pomfrey gave her a small room to herself, a room with a window that could open because the air in it became stale with the metallic tang of blood and something rotten, like she was already dead but her brain just hadn’t caught up yet.

Her old classmates made sure she didn’t die alone, which Draco thought a rather good show of that bravery Gryffindors were so well-known for.

She told them it was alright, that they could have the years she was supposed to have lived if it weren’t for the war. She didn’t know what to do with them, anyway.

Granger walked around with empty eyes for days after that, not unlike her other Gryffindor classmates. There had been no battle, nothing big and explosive for Brown to have died a heroic death. She’d just been unlucky, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and perhaps they had all forgotten that that could still occur, too. They put their lives on the line all the time, trying to find important objects, to kill Death Eaters, to save children, and yet they could still die a quiet death in a decrepit old safehouse.

It was still important, somehow. Not because it had been a sacrifice, but because it hadn’t.

It was what spurred on the final action.


	15. 14. Fourteen. (Rushing In, or Taking Action.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, Potter, go and find that bloody snake, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Move in day was a success! Which means that I've sorted all the books and the rest is still a mess, but that counts, right?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos or comments!

**14.01.**

“What if this was the last time?” she said, after they had both caught their breath again.

“Any time could’ve been the last time,” he said, even if he knew that she meant something different, that she and her friends were planning to leave soon even if the rest of the Order didn’t deem them ready yet. Draco was not an idiot. He’d gone to school with these people for years. He knew how they worked.

“Yes, but…”

“Do you want it to be? The last time?”

She looked at him, _really_ looked at him. There was something in her eyes that he could not figure out, somewhere between want and regret, though he didn’t know what it was that she regretted exactly. She opened her mouth to form the word “No,” but her eyes flicked toward his arm so fast he could have missed it if he blinked, and he just shook his head. That was how it was, how it was always going to be.

He plucked the un-lit cigarette from her hand and pressed a fingertip against her opening in the same move. “Yeah?”

She looked a little shocked, but it didn’t last long. “Yes.”

If it was going to be the last time, he better make it last.

**14.02.**

They left to do it on their own, which did not truly surprise anybody. That was the way Potter was, the way they always had been, from the moment they went after that Stone back in first year. Likely even before that, though Draco wouldn’t know; he’d been busy only with trying to get Potter and Weasel expelled.

“We’ll go to the Hog’s Head,” Longbottom said. He looked calm, because for once, he seemed to be the one who knew what was happening. “We can get to them quickly from there. They will have told Abe to expect us.”

“Who’s Abe?” Thomas asked.

“The owner, of course. He helped us a lot last year. He’s the only reason some of us managed to stick around and not die.” He said it in such a flippant way that it made even Draco pause for a moment. “Anyway, after Ginny never came back and then Luna disappeared, I thought it best that I left school as well. Grandma was already on the run by then, so there wasn’t much I had to lose.” He shrugged. “Aberforth helped me. He has a way out of the castle. And,” he said with a smile, “in.”

“You go,” Theo said. “Take two or three others. Use the coins to warn us when things blow up. We’ll round up everyone else in the meantime.”

Longbottom nodded. “Don’t tell Kingsley or any of the Aurors right away. They might want to go to soon.”

Draco wondered when they had gotten to the point that their class had simply taken over the reigns from the professionals. Then again, when it came to Hogwarts, they did have the advantage. They were the last in the Order to have been there.

Longbottom took Lovegood and Red with him, apparently the leaders of the resistance back in school last year, but there was no time to ask what that meant. There was work to be done.

**14.03.**

It felt like a very long time before the coins started burning in their hands and their pockets, a long time of anxiously wishing for them to heat up and yet also for nothing to happen at all. The air was buzzing with anticipation, both fearful and excited, because they knew that this was it. After this battle, they would be free, or they would be dead.

It did not have to end today, but it would.

Aberforth was decidedly not happy to see them. He complained under his breath about an influx of people in his pub, as though they were bothering his non-existent customers. Worse, though, was the look he gave Draco, that was not quite hatred but definitely held something of the sort. Disappointment, too It was a familiar look, in familiar eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I,” said Aberforth Dumbledore. He pointed at a painting that was swung to the side to reveal a large opening. A tunnel. “You can still fix some of that.”

Draco didn’t think he could. He didn’t think Aberforth believed he could. He nodded anyway and stepped in, followed by his friends. If it weren’t so serious, it might almost feel like they were up to some mischief at school, even if he hadn’t really hung out with Theo back then. As it was, he felt none of the excitement that would accompany that. He just felt sick.

The tunnel was too low to walk upright, and too dark to see anything without lighting their wands, but at the very least it wasn’t long. On the other side was a large room full of people, and Hogwarts banners in three colours—only the Slytherin green lacking. They were given both nods and suspicious looks. Longbottom must have filled in everyone who didn’t yet know there would be Slytherins joining in, though, because there were no shouts or punches. He didn’t realize he’d been expecting them until they didn’t come.

“Now what?” Pansy asked Red when they finally located her.

“He knows Harry’s here,” said Red. “I think he’s been expecting him, so that would mean there is something here. He’s demanded Harry come to him withing the hour, that was when we called you all. We’ll all go out together in a minute. Most of us aren’t exactly anonymous. Once they know we’re in, we can’t go back.”

“I didn’t think we wanted to.”

“I should hope not.” She was looking around, eyes roaming around the room as if to check that specific people were there. “Alright, everyone! This is it. We don’t know exactly where Harry is, and neither should any Death Eater. We’re letting you out in groups of two and three. The sooner you’re out, the further you’re going to run. Spread out. Listen to where Neville tells you to go when you go out. Go, go, go!” Those last words were shouted almost in a kind of excitement.

They went.

By the time the first people were running around the castle, older Order members had arrived, too—Lupin, Shacklebolt, Marvin Westinburgh, the Weasley parents. They didn’t try in the slightest to stop anyone. They looked harried, but no less excited than anyone else.

Draco found himself running outside with Dean Thomas, followed closely by Charlie Weasley and Terry Boot. Thomas was the one who saw Potter first, at the foot of the stairs. “What’s first? What’s going on?”

“They’re evacuating the younger kids,” Potter said, looking like he didn’t know how to feel about all these people joining him at the castle but trying to hide it. “He’s coming. We’re fighting.”

“Alright,” Charlie said. “Let’s move, then. Astronomy Tower. Good overview. Good way to attack from afar.”

” He looked at Draco, eyes questioning. It would’ve pissed Draco off, but there was no true distrust in his eyes.

He nodded.

Draco wondered if Longbottom had given them that instruction solely to see what Draco would do. If anyone waited for him to comment on it, he didn’t give them the satisfaction. He simply nodded and started going in that direction.

They came across Prefects with younger children making their way to the room they had just vacated, the one with a continuous stream of people getting out. He didn’t care to wonder if it had another entrance but he did anyway, because the only other option was to worry about what was about to come. He hadn’t thought he was scared but he didn’t feel entirely optimistic, either, didn’t share the enthusiasm that others showed in their faces. It had to be a Gryffindor thing, that famous bravery more recklessness than anything else, because Boot was supposed to be in the house of steady minds and his expression was taught.

Something tugged at his mind that had been doing so ever since he learned about something called a diadem, but it was a weak tug that didn’t managed to pull away any of his more acute worries, and he had no time to stand still and give it space. They were reaching the tower, and if anything was going to keep his mind from the oncoming battle, then it was all those bloody stairs.

Charlie was right, though. It had an excellent overview.

From the top of the tower, they could see far and wide, across the lake and the grounds and even a good part of the castle itself. There were people down on the grounds, though few, shooting protective charms up in the air. Further in the distance, there was nothing. It was an ominous nothingness, and a familiar one. It didn’t mean no one was there.

“How much longer until the hour’s done?”

“We’re halfway,” Boot said. His voice sounded a little too controlled. He looked pale even in the summer twilight.

“I never thought the biggest battle of the war would involve so much waiting,” said Thomas. It was trying to alleviate the tension, but no one laughed, or said anything.

It was the longest half hour of their collective lives.

They were joined by Flitwick, after there were no more people outside to cast the protection around the castle. He had to stand on a large crate to even see over the banisters, but he looked determined and not in the slightest bit afraid. “We’re the castle’s first line of defence,” he told them, as solemnly as someone with his high voice could. “You were all great at charms back when you were at Hogwarts. Hogwarts is counting on you.”

“Uh,” Draco said. He didn’t know Flitwick very well, other than his notable appearance and the fact that he was one of the better teachers at Hogwarts. He wondered if he always had such small pep talks.

It was cold up at the tower. It reminded him of that night two years ago, when the wind also made him feel colder than it had any right to at this time of the year. He wondered if that was because of the high position of the tower, or because he was never here for any good reason.

They didn’t have to stay in doubt as to how they would know the hour was up. Shadowy figures popped up almost out of nowhere, Death Eaters and Snatchers and sympathisers that had not gotten that highest honour but still acted like they did. He hadn’t realized how many of them there were; they only ever saw a few at the same time during a battle, and back at the Manor only those with the Mark or their spouses were ever invited in.

“Oh,” Dean Thomas said, eyes wide. “Shit.”

“Well,” said Charlie. “Here goes nothing.”

It seemed safe, so high up in the tower, although that didn’t mean much when it came to witches and wizards. They watched, their breaths held, while the people gathered outside the charms beat their way through the protective dome over the castle. The cracks in it appeared in lights. They were all on a different side of the tower, covering all sides from which they could see people approaching.

By Salazar, he’d never realized magic could be so exhausting, like a sport.

“You alright there, Malfoy?”

He was about to tell Charlie yes when the first counter curse flew into the tower and splintered a wooden beam. They’d broken through the barrier, and some of them were on brooms.

From that point on, everything became a blur.

He wouldn’t be able to tell who it was he was fighting, because he hardly even knew the face half-hidden by the hood and it didn’t matter, anyway. If they didn’t kill him because he was a traitor, then they’d kill him for being on the Order’s side. This wasn’t a battle they could just run away from when something went wrong. This was a battle to kill or be killed.

It was as though his body was doing automatically what his brain could not consciously tell it to do, his Shields and counter spells as quick and angry as the ones that came his way even if it barely registered what he was doing. He was trying to figure out that thing he was missing, the thing he had locked somewhere in his brain that was begging to come out but could not.

“You’re Lucius’s boy,” the man said. “Yes, you are as good as they told me you would be.” He was circling Draco, not bothered by the presence of others in the tower because they were preoccupied with Riddle’s sympathisers duelling them from the air. “The Dark Lord will be delighted to hear you are dead.”

“Hoping for a reward, are you?” Draco sneered, brain finally catching up with what was going on again. “For ending a long Pureblood line, no less. You think that’s how he works?”

“For killing a traitor,” said the man, firing a curse at him.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Draco, deflecting it with a Shield Charm that flashed a deep blue when the curse hit it.

His Blasting Curse hit the idiot right in the stomach and blasted him, in a rather theatrical way, right out of the tower. His friends weren’t quick enough to reach for him, or more likely they simply did not care. He went down without a lot of fuss.

_Deep blue._

“Nice one,” Charlie Weasley told him, firing a curse of his own.

He remembered another flash of deep blue, one that he hadn’t given a lot of attention at the time because what use did he have for some old headband unless it was going to help him kill the headmaster? His family had enough money and jewellery for generations to come. If it wasn’t going to fix the cabinet, he didn’t need it.

“I have to go.”

He didn’t say it to anyone in particular. He didn’t even know if they heard him. They were all focused on what was going on outside, but they outnumbered those hovering in the air now. They would be alright. They’d think he’d abandoned them, and he was about to, in a way, but that was alright.

He _had_ seen that diadem before.

**14.04.**

The castle was in chaos.

Already—or had they been up there for so long?—there was rubble and dust to avoid tripping over, spells flying past him that he only managed to avoid through sheer luck and that added to the mess that were the castle halls now. He didn’t stop running. The moment any Death Eater recognized him, they wouldn’t stop until either of them was dead and there was no _time—_

He shot a curse at someone whose face he couldn’t see who was duelling Red but didn’t stop to check on her. Someone shouted his name—it might be her—but he ignored it. Over the other noise around him, screams and small explosions and stones hitting the ground, he might as well not have heard it. A window shattered in the distance.

Only when the entire castle shook, _literally shook_ , did he pause for just a single moment. The impact made his wand slip in his hand, just a little, and it shocked him into being again. In that blink of an eye he realized the portraits were screaming, too, all filled with people who weren’t supposed to be there but who were trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on throughout the castle who were now tumbling about because the force had shaken their frames. “Don’t stand there, boy!” yelled a stumpy knight who had fallen flat on his face, “be brave! Protect us all from these scoundrels!”

He ran off again before anyone could tell the ugly knight who he was, along the trembling corridors, holding his wand so tight it almost hurt.

He arrived in the corridor the moment the castle quaked again, and right in time to see Granger kiss Weasley, and he was going to credit the first one for the nausea he felt in that moment because this was no time to acknowledge that it might not be.

“Bloody hell,” Draco said loudly to grab their attention. “Shouldn’t you be opening the room instead of your mouths?”

The whole Trio looked at him in shock. He didn’t know if that was because he was here at all, or because he had apparently had the same realisation as they had. “I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things in sixth year,” he said, trying and failing not to let his impatience bleed into his voice. “I should have realised sooner.”

Weasley opened his mouth to say something, likely something mean and annoying, but Potter was faster. “You’re right,” he said, which wasn’t something any of them had ever expected to hear Potter say about Draco. He turned and walked past the wall, two times, three.

The door was familiar to the point that it made Draco feel like a scared teenager again. It had only been two years, but it felt like a lifetime ago, and yet now that he was here again he could feel his arm burning. It wasn’t the Mark itself. It was only in his head this time.

“And he never realised _anyone_ could get in?” Weasley said. “I mean, it couldn’t have been empty when he got here…”

“He thought he was the only one,” Potter said. “That’s what you get for thinking you’re more special than anyone else. Alright, we all know what we’re looking for. Malfoy, you planning to stand there or help out?”

“I know where it is,” he said.

“It’s on an old bust of a man, with a wig and a tiara,” Potter said.

“ _I know where it is_ ,” he repeated, because indeed it was on a bust; he remembered thinking it looked weird but not being in the right mind to find it funny. It was right next to the Vanishing Cabinet.

“Alright,” said Granger. “Lead the way.”

He’d walked these paths so many times he didn’t even have to think about how to get there. It was the feeling of being in a dream, a bad one. He’d spent so many hours here frantically working on something that was only a vague plan, his last plan. So many terrified hours.

“There!” Potter said.

“Not so fast.”

Draco’s wand was flying from his hand before he even knew what was happening, along with another one—Granger’s. He knew that voice. He knew it very well. It was Crabbe and Goyle standing right behind them. It was a mystery how they had gotten here so fast without being noticed.

“Diss-lusionment charm,” Greg grunted. “What is it you’re looking for, Potter? You think a girly crown is going to help you win this battle?”

Vincent chuckled. “You can put it on when we bring you to the Dark Lord. _Crucio!_ ”

Potter and Weasley both dove aside, just in time before the spell hit the spot they had been standing and blew apart the pile of books there. Draco ducked, too, not sure where to go from here without his wand, with on one side his old friends that were now his enemies and one the other his old enemies that were now on the same side.

Where had Granger gone?

Something moved to his right, a movement so slight that it momentarily confused everyone. It was a moment long enough for doubt, long enough for a jet of red light to hit Greg in his side and for not two, but three wands flying through the air. “I believe this is yours,” Granger told him, handing him back his own. “Ron—!”

Weasley caught one, too, and for a moment Draco was confused, but she must have borrowed it to steal back her own. She flung the final one, Greg’s wand, as far as she could into the rubbish. He leapt foolishly on the spot, as if that would retrieve it.

But Crabbe didn’t stand still, either. He yelled “ _Avada kedavra!”_ loud enough for them to be warned just in time, killing instead the bust of the old warlock, the diadem going down in the pile of crap underneath. Draco snarled, shot something less lethal but no less unpleasant at his old friend. If he could coax Vincent away from that pile, he could give Potter a chance to find that Horcrux—they wouldn’t have much trouble with an unarmed Greg…

It worked, but only for seconds before Vince got bored with him, perhaps even realised what he was trying to do, because there was another jet of light from his wand that just barely missed Draco but that didn’t end up in a small explosion where it hit and die out—it set fire to a small cabinet, a fire that _should not_ flare this high right away…

“Hope you scum like it hot!” Vincent roared, turning to run. He shot another killing curse at Granger, but it missed by so much it was clear he’d hardly been trying to aim because already half the room appeared to be in flames; Potter, Weasley and Granger all looked panicked and turned to follow him as well. Greg was still on the ground, unconscious, and Draco felt a pang of regret when he passed him but did not make any effort to get him out of the room. They’d been friends for so long, he hated himself for leaving the guy here to die, but Greg had made his choice, too.

The fire was mutating, forming a pack of gigantic beasts, licking at his ankles in a rather literal way. It was searing off the hair in his neck, it was too close, he didn’t know what kind of fire this was but he could not outrun it…

And then there was the door again. He all but made a dive that would be worthy of a Quidditch champion had he been sat on a broom. He rolled on the cool ground of the hallway, a violent cough coming up the moment he was no longer running for his life.

The door was gone.

Weasley was retching, though nothing was coming out. No one else was faring much better. Their faces were all blackened with sooth, and now that they were catching their breath, Draco realised exactly how terrible singed hair smelled. “Where’s Vin—Crabbe?”

“Running to his master, probably,” Weasley said, in a bitter tone.

“How did he—” Granger started, gasped, and tried again. “Where did he learn to do that? That was Fiendfyre, it must have been…”

Potter only looked pained. “The Horcrux,” was all he said.

“It’s gone, Harry. Fiendfyre is cursed fire, it’s one of the substances that can destroy them, but I never would have used it. It’s so dangerous…”

They were all trying to catch their breath. It was nothing short of a miracle that they had the time to do so, that there was no one else in the hallway, but that wouldn’t last long. “That’s the last one down, then?”

“I destroyed the cup,” Granger said, as though Draco had any clue what cup she was talking about. “So all we need to do is get to the snake now—”

That was the end of their reprieve, though. Shouts came from the far end of the hallway, the sounds of duelling. The Minister for Magic, Thicknesse, who was fighting under the Imperius Curse but fighting on the wrong side nonetheless. He and Rowle were duelling Penelope Clearwater and a girl Draco did not know. He jumped up. His legs were still shaking, but there was no time to be in shock now.

“Well, Potter,” he said, wand already tightly in his hand again. “Go and find that bloody snake, then.”


	16. 15. Fifteen. (Winning and Losing.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s it running from?” Bellatrix said in a sing-song voice. “Where is it running to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost finished! Should think about starting a new writing project soon...

**15.01.**

He didn’t know what was up or down anymore.

He’d seen spiders as large as a small house outside and hadn’t even questioned whether they were real. There was a small giant stomping around on them. Draco had grown up in the magical world, but never had he imagined seeing either of those things, let alone together, and it wasn’t even funny.

If he’d thought he was exhausted back on the Astronomy tower at the very beginning of this battle, it was nothing compared to how he felt now, drained in every imaginable way. He wanted to lie down on a bed and not wake up for days, or if that wasn’t an option then at least to lean against a wall and catch his breath for a moment, but he couldn’t. Someone was always attacking him, or an Order member, or a student; he didn’t know how so many people were fighting on the Dark Lord’s side when there were so few truly Pureblood families to even begin with. And the creatures—ugly things that were tired or being banished, or that simply wanted blood and knew the Dark Lord would provide it for them. By this point he wouldn’t even be surprised if the Giant Squid came slithering down the hall.

“You have fought valiantly.”

There it was, his voice, reverberating from the walls. It was a shock to hear it again and yet it was not. Draco let out a sigh, sagged against the wall after all, because everyone had stilled. It was as though His voice was a spell in itself, pressing silence upon them all. A heavy sort of silence, that pressed against your eardrums and made you forget about everything else.

“Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery,” the voice continued. Draco would have laughed if he’d dared to break the silence, but he didn’t. “Yet you have also sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.

“Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat, immediately. You are given one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.”

In all the battles they’d fought since this war began, no one had ever stopped to give them a break. It felt wrong somehow. Something else was coming.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.”

There it was.

“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me.

“One hour.”

The retreat was silent, eerily so, in a way that wasn’t silent at all. There was the sound of feet dragging, of people coughing up dust, of a sigh when someone had to adjust their grip on a hurt friend—or a fallen one.

The injured were treated on the raised platform at the front of the hall. The dead were laid out in the middle, in a neat row. He walked past them, quick glances, only to check that Theo and Pansy weren’t among them, or even Granger. They weren’t.

Charlie Weasley was.

His family was standing all together, a small crowd of redheads and one blonde woman that he remembered was married to the eldest one. He didn’t care to come closer. After his mother died, he no longer grieved for anything. He hadn’t grieved for Tonks the way she’d deserved, and he wasn’t going to do it for a Weasley, even if he actually liked this one. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t care enough again to do so, and so he would not let himself.

He wandered toward the edge of the room, feeling more like an outsider than he had in months now. All these grieving people reminded him that no one here would grieve for him if he had been laying among the dead, and it hadn’t bothered him much until he saw the scene.

Someone came to stand next to him. Granger. A deliberate move, considering how far away he was from everyone else. Should she not be with Weasel, trying to comfort him?

He didn’t ask. There were tears in her eyes that did not spill, and he decided this wasn’t the time.

“Harry’s gone.”

She said it so quietly he wasn’t sure she said it at all. She kept staring ahead, those tears brimming in her eyes but not spilling.

“Gone?” he asked, just as quietly. _Into the forest?_

She nodded. The movement made a tear roll down to her chin. It stuck there, refusing to fall down.

“Does Wea— Does Ron know?”

The use of Weasley’s given name was a first. It almost hurt him to use it.

“He knows,” she said, looking at the clan of Weasleys down the hall. “But I don’t know if it registered.”

In different circumstances, this would warrant a tasteless joke about Weasley’s intelligence. In these ones, he awkwardly stood next to her, wondering what he was supposed to do around her in public when they weren’t fighting, and said, “I’m sorry.”

**15.02.**

Potter came back in the arms of the groundskeeper. He was dead.

Aunt Bella never looked so gleeful before, even more so when her eyes found Draco. She cackled. Loudly. _You chose the wrong side, little Draco, and now there is no going back._

He found he didn’t mind so much. The idea that he would be on the same side as that psychopath was almost as bad as losing. That felt like he’d turned into a bloody Gryffindor, but maybe that’s where the whole problem had started—with the idea that they were supposed to be better than everyone else because they were Purebloods and Slytherins, and everyone else was supposed to hate them because that was what they were.

“Your hero is dead,” said he. _Voldemort_.

More words came, a whole speech, without a doubt to tell them that they were a bunch of weak idiots who had to do his bidding now, but Draco did not hear them. His gaze had locked on his father’s, who didn’t look entirely happy that they won this battle, and therefore likely this war. He looked empty.

Draco thought of Lucius’ vague apology the last time he saw him. _You chose_ this _._ What was the man thinking now? Was he thinking anything at all, or was he only going through the movements he was expected to make, only surviving?

If Lucius was wondering about his son, he didn’t show it. He didn’t so much as acknowledge him.

There was sound around him. Murmurs, and cries, perhaps. He barely heard it. This moment should be about Potter and the messed up fact that the Chosen One was dead, but Draco was in some kind of bubble and all he could see was those grey eyes that looked so much like the ones he saw in the mirror every day. 

Lucius’ hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach out but couldn’t—or perhaps that was just what Draco hoped was happening. He’d thought he would never be able to forgive the man for the past few years and _yet_ … there was something in him that did not want to let go.

The spell was broken when Longbottom stepped up and yelled at the Dark Lord, the cruellest wizard Britain had seen in centuries. “—hell freezes over!”

Draco closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them again, all the Death Eaters were staring at Longbottom, including Lucius Malfoy.

“Very well,” Voldemort said. “On your head be it.”

Someone was looking at Draco. He could feel eyes on him when there shouldn’t be any—they should all be on the horrible spectacle a few meters away. He knew it would be his aunt before he saw her, her lips twisting into something between a snarl and the way she always not-quite smiled. Evil intent. The only reason she didn’t torture him right there was because she wouldn’t be allowed to draw away the attention from her master, but she was stepping closer towards him, undoubtedly to ask him for permission to torture and kill the traitor…

It never happened. Before she could set another step, a lot of things happened all at the same time.

Longbottom was aflame, or at least his head was—someone was moving toward him, hopefully to help—there was an uproar in the distance and something massive moved, giants—arrows were falling amongst the Death Eaters, who scattered apart in shock…

In the chaos, Draco heard at least one furious scream he knew better than any. He threw himself out of the way, not even looking at the source, just in case. Surely, a jet of light hit the spot he’d just been standing. Red, not green, which was a good thing because it hit someone else it hadn’t been intended for.

There was no time to feel bad about that. She’d come after _him_ , not anyone else, and so in what he felt was the first act of bravery in his entire life, he ran. Not to get away from her, but to draw her away from others.

He ran past the spot where Potter had been lying at Voldemort’s feet, but he was gone. A flash of hope. Could it be—?

There was a snake’s head right near that spot instead, that horrible thing that had put so much fear into Draco back at the Manor. Had he had the time, he’d rejoice. He’d hope, that perhaps Potter had found a way—

But there was no time, and those feelings were only flashes.

He ducked away from another curse. It hit the wall next to him and shattered a few bricks. A sharp pain in his arm told him at least one chip lodged itself into his arm. Left, so that was alright.

“What’s it running from?” Bellatrix said in a sing-song voice, both sweet and terrifying. “Where is it running to?”

There was no one else around here. Wasn’t that what he’d been running towards—a spot without innocent bystanders? Then why did it take everything he had not to simply keep running until, somehow, all of this was over?

“Bloody hell,” he said, and turned to face his aunt.

She looked delighted. “Is the ickle little traitor ready to face his punishment?”

He wasn’t. “Might want to reschedule.”

She flicked her wand, unbothered if he deflected whatever spell she cast. “Are you feeling brave, now that you are one of them? An honorary Gryffindor brat, perhaps?” Now a steady stream of thick smoke came out of her wand. It shaped itself in the form of a lion’s head, red and angry. It was such a mesmerizing sight that he almost realised too late what she intended to use it for—he ducked out of the way as it leapt towards him with a loud roar, firing a Stunner at it as though that would do any good. It went straight through, and didn’t even hit Bellatrix on its way.

Hers was seriously advanced magic, there was no way he could match that.

“Crucio!”

She screamed, but it didn’t last long even if he’d _meant it_ with all that he had in him. “Is that all you have, little nephew? Should I show you how it’s done?”

He managed to protect himself from the curse mainly because he knew it was coming, only to end up in a whirl of curses, flashes of light shooting both ways without anything really hitting its mark. Bellatrix was fast, but he had one thing going for him—she was the one who’d trained him.

“All roar and no bite,” Bellatrix said, undeterred by her lack of doing any damage. She knew he was having a rough time keeping up with her. She was only just playing.

He’d just blocked another Crucio when she suddenly stopped. Stopped making any sound, stopped firing curses at him; she spun around, looking furious.

“Her taunts were getting tiring,” Pansy said. “And I didn’t fancy being called a lion, too.”

That was about all the downtime they got. If Bellatrix had been playing before, she was over that now. Her hexes and curses still came at the same speed except now she was focusing on two people except one, and there was no time to say it out loud but Draco was infinitely grateful for Pansy, because he didn’t think he would’ve lasted long against his aunt in full force. There was no fun in it or her if she couldn’t taunt them. She was a snake going in for the kill—fast, poisonous, and ready to swallow them whole.

It felt like they went on like that forever. A stalemate without the calmness that would go on for so long until someone slipped up.

For one terrible second, he thought that would be him.

In the next, more terrible than any, he realised it was Pansy.

He didn’t look to check if she deflected the jet of green light, or if it hit her at all. The sole fact that Bellatrix would fire _that_ curse at a Pureblood, at a descendant of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, at _Pansy_ , was enough to push him over the edge.

He’d done it before, after all. It was actually easier the second time.

She fell, a surprised look etched forever on her face because she hadn’t expected him to do it. Hadn’t she called him weak too often before? Hadn’t she called him too much of a Gryffindor just minutes earlier? She never did learn that it wasn’t about the colour tie you wore, but about the things you thought were right.

Draco was still a snake, and that was how he finished her.

“Pans?”

She did not answer. He turned around slowly, away from the sight of Bellatrix’s empty surprise. “Pans, come on. You only just got here.” He didn’t come closer, because he didn’t want to know for sure. “You’re supposed to win this war on our side and get ugly little babies with… with Weasel or something…”

He had no idea why he said that, except that the idea sounded so preposterous in his head that if she had the chance to reply, he knew she would. She didn’t.

**15.03.**

Voldemort was screaming. At Potter.

Both those things were such strange concepts in that moment that Draco had to stop in his tracks and watch it—just like everyone else in the Great Hall. The Dark Lord never screamed; he spoke quietly, to make sure you listened to every word he said, in that slow and chilling way only he could. And Potter… well, he was supposed to be dead, wasn’t he?

Yet here they were, the Dark Lord and the Chosen One, the centre of this war, _arguing._

About the Headmaster’s death, and Severus Snape.

Nothing made sense anymore. It didn’t make sense to anyone but the two of them, judging by the looks on everyone else’s faces, but they all still listened intently because something was happening here. Something big. Something that Draco could feel, before he understood it, had something to do with him.

If Dumbledore had planned his death, then he’d known he would die. He’d known, even, that it was Draco who was supposed to do it. His suggestion to allow the Malfoys to stay safe with the Order hadn’t come out of the blue, and neither had Snape’s attempts to talk to him about his plans.

It wouldn’t have mattered in the big picture had Draco known any of this. The headmaster would still have died, and perhaps he would’ve still not believed his family could be saved if he made a run for it. But perhaps it would have made him feel a little less despairing about what he’d done.

“… The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.”

His head snapped up. Everyone around him turned their gaze to him. And because he could find nothing particularly useful to say, what came out was, “Pardon?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Potter said. “I overpowered you months ago, over a year now, back at the Manor, didn’t I?” His eyes never left Voldemort’s face. “So… does the wand in Riddle’s hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does, _I_ am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

Did that mean Draco had been the master of the most powerful wand in existence for nearly a year without knowing it? How had he never known? He’d known about its existence—Mother always told him not to take the stories she told him lightly, and there were plenty of stories in history that suggested such a wand did exist. He’d never actually considered it, but… he would’ve thought that one would simply _know_ , had they acquired it.

If the things that were going on in this Hall now were any indication, that was not the case. Because once again did the Killing Curse not kill Potter, and once again did it kill someone else instead.

The Dark Lord’s fall was anticlimactic, mundane, almost. His body fell to the floor with a thud, a look on his face not unlike that of his most loyal follower when she found her end in that hallway further down the castle. Draco thought it would be more spectacular, somehow, that the man who could not be killed was finally killed with a bang and his body would disintegrate on the spot. It didn’t. It just lay there, like any other dead body would, except with a more snake-like face.

It took only a moment, but it was the quietest moment of Draco’s life, and it ended in absolute chaos. A happy chaos, a relieved one; people were running at each other for hugs. There were people yelling, and people crying, the stress of the past few years all coming out at once now that Voldemort’s body was empty on the floor.

Draco didn’t feel it.

He stared at the body as it was removed by Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley, to be put into another room—they’d decide what to do with it later. He stared at it with a strange empty feeling. He should be _relieved_ , or happy even. He should be like the people that were happily moving around him, even if he wasn’t a hugger, had never been brought up to see hugging as an acceptable act for a Pureblood of his status and now felt more than a little uncomfortable by it all. Why wasn’t he?

“So,” Theo’s voice said behind him. “This is it.”

“You have any of those death sticks on you?” Draco asked without turning around to face him.

“Of course.”

He knew Theo would be making his way out of the castle, so he turned and followed. It was strange, walking around it now. Everyone else was still in the Great Hall, not yet ready to face even the first actions of cleaning up—arguably the worst—and so they passed empty corridors with rubble everywhere, walls that had come down, bodies that had yet to be recovered. Draco tried not to look. Neither of them mentioned any of it.

It was an early summer night but it was surprisingly chilly, or perhaps that was only because of what they’d just gone through because Draco could not recall feeling the slightest shiver when they were last here to see Potter’s apparently not-so-dead body being carried out of the Forest. The steps they sat on weren’t so cold. It was just them shivering.

Theo handed him a cigarette. He lit it with his wand.

“The Elder Wand, huh,” was the first thing Theo said eventually.

Draco let out a humourless laugh. “Imagine that.”

“Did you know?”

“No.” He let out a stream of smoke and stared at it as it evaporated. He didn’t elaborate.

Theo knew him well enough by now not to ask any further, so they sat in silence for a while. It gave Draco the time to think about the questions that weren’t asked, like _Would you have wanted to_ or _What would you have done with it_. Tried to avoid his mother’s death, probably, though he didn’t know what one wand could’ve done to prevent it. He could say something heroic, like attacking the Dark Lord, but that would be a lie. He wouldn’t have had the balls. Besides, one wand—no matter how great—would not have kept him from dying if he’d dared to defy Voldemort with it. It couldn’t kill all his followers at once.

That was all assuming he would have been allowed to live at all, of course, which was very unlikely in the first place.

“Don’t think I’d be sitting here if I’d known,” he finally said. “He would’ve killed me on the spot.”

“Hm,” Theo said, by way of agreement. “So now what?”

He took another drag from the cigarette, if only to avoid answering that question. That was the crux, the reason he couldn’t feel entirely happy that it all appeared to be over. Where was he going to go? Live in the house that was now ruined by all the torture and death that had happened there, all by himself? He wasn’t sure if his father had survived the battle yet, but even if he had, he would not go unpunished.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do in that house all by myself,” Theo said. Of course—he was the last surviving member of his family now, too. “No one is going to want to buy that shit.”

“I can’t believe you’ve had time to think about that.”

“I have time now.” 

They did have time now. Draco wondered what he was planning to do with it.


	17. 00. Zero. (After, or Another Beginning.)

War doesn’t end with victory.

In fact, sometimes Draco wondered if it ended at all. In times like these, when he was up at some horrid hour of the night because he’d dreamt about the headmaster’s disappointment in him right before he fell from that tower, or about Pansy escaping the Death Eaters only to be killed by one shortly after, or about the tears leaking from Granger’s eyes as she lay tortured on his drawing room floor, or the feeling inside of him when he first fired a Killing Curse, or—well, there were plenty of dream subjects to choose from, and they repeated themselves in an endless cycle of terrible nights.

He was naked, barely covered by a sheet, smoking another one of those cigarettes that he now couldn’t stop using. He didn’t know how Muggles had managed to make a stick that could calm him down without magic, but they had, even if they did bring the danger of killing their user.

Didn’t matter much. He almost wished that they would.

“Master Draco, you is up again.”

“You don’t have to keep doing that, Mippy. Disturb your own sleep because I don’t sleep.”

“I is doing my job,” she said, “even if Master does not like it.”

He was grateful for it, too, even if it meant that his own house-elf wouldn’t listen to him. “We’re out of Dreamless Sleep Potion,” he said. “There’s no point—”

“We isn’t,” Mippy said, holding out a vial in her tiny hand. “Master Theo told Mippy to come when there was no more, so Mippy did, and now we have more.”

Of course he did, the bloody arsehole. “Master Theo likes to get me addicted to things,” Draco said, pointing at the cigarette. There was no heat behind it, though. He was keeping himself addicted to it well enough without Theo’s help, because how else was he supposed to get through the night?

“You has a letter, too,” Mippy said, holding out a thin envelope. Draco frowned. He never got letters, not at home. The only person he talked to on a regular basis was Theo, and he just popped in whenever he felt like it. It _did_ have his name on the front of the envelope in a neat, tiny scrawl, along with his current address. He was almost sure that could only mean one sender.

He found himself nervous to see for himself.

_Draco,_

_I recall you were always awake at night when I couldn’t sleep from having nightmares._

_I could do with a cigarette now._

He wondered where she’d found the nerve. They hadn’t been anything but two people trying to find some distraction in each other. They hadn’t been doing it long enough to warrant letters in the middle of the night, or the assumption that they’d simply go on like that after the immediate tension of the war around them was over.

War didn’t make for romance, or as Longbottom had once put it, _war isn’t a time for feelings._ But the war was over. They’d held his trial and he’d been cleared, because there wasn’t much else they could do after all the testimonies stating the things he’d done for the Order. As told by Shacklebolt, Potter, and Granger, he was a hero. They hadn’t lied, but it still sounded like things that were part of somebody else’s life, things that sounded infinitely better and more heroic than they ever had been in real life.

The war was over and yet here he was, smoking cigarettes in front of an open window as though he were still in a safehouse trying to grasp a little bit of calm and freedom in the midst of fear and insecurity because it wasn’t _over_. They’d won, but it wasn’t over. It hadn’t ended, it simply went on inside all of them who had fought in it. It was in the way it affected his dreams almost worse than ever before, in the way Theo always kept a supply of both cigarettes and Dreamless Sleep Potion because he knew Draco would forget to stock up, in the way neither of them ever talked about their old classmates or about their families or about anything, really, except when one of them broke down completely and there was nothing else to do.

So maybe it wasn’t so strange to pick up where he and Granger left off, and maybe they could try and see where that would go in this strange limbo of a situation between war and life.

He got up to find a quill and ink, not bothering to take the sheet with him—Mippy had left anyway, and she’d seen worse. It took embarrassingly long to find these items, things that he used to need on a daily basis and now barely had lying around in this small new house of his that still felt more like a temporary hideout than it did a home.

Writing her given name was strange to his fingers, he’d so rarely used it to address her. It was somehow the main thing that made this feel different from before, a post-war situation.

_Hermione,_

_I may have one to spare, should you want to share one. You appear to know my address._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endings are so hard. I hope I did it right.


End file.
